


Lower Your Eyelids (To Die With The Sun)

by xxredwineandambiencexx



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:59:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2891270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxredwineandambiencexx/pseuds/xxredwineandambiencexx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ll be your queen.” She begins in a low voice, and it’s enough to make those blue eyes snap to her. “But never theirs. Not while Lannister blood runs in my veins.”</p><p>Robb Stark gazes at her thoughtfully for a long moment. </p><p>“I think that you’ll find that you are already winning their trust. Give it time my lady. They will bend the knee to you, and do so gladly.”</p><p>No one ever thought that Daenerys Targaryen would ever come to take back the throne. </p><p>But she did. </p><p>Banished from Kings Landing, by order of the Queen the Summer Princess is to be wed to the Winter King. </p><p>A Robb/Myrcella fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Do you think you’ll be allowed to come back and live with us Cella?” Her younger brother, now King she has to remind herself asks her quietly.

They’re out on the cliff gardens, sun beating down on them pleasantly as they bask in the last rays of summer.

Winter is coming it had been said, and she has to pretend that her heart doesn’t twist at those words every time she hears them, a reminder of a future that could have been hers had her brother not intervened.

“I’m not sure.” She replies softly, eyes squeezed shut against the harsh light. She’s sitting on a stone bench, her face tilted back towards the sun.

Tommen is ignoring her for the most part, hands braced against the stone railing that looks out on the ocean and the limitless blue sky beyond. At fifteen years he is so _young,_ too young to bear the weight of the crown that rests on his head.

“I’m the King now. I could command them to release you to me.” Tommen points out thoughtfully as she muffles her laughter with her hand.

It was so like him to think of this now, even if it would be a fruitless attempt in the first place. He is little more than a puppet, as he sits on his Throne and has his mind poisoned by those that have been playing this game since well before either of them were born. 

“You could try and you would be refused my sweet. The Dornish were promised my personage to foster as they see fit. They would not return me unless the situation was dire.”

She sees his brow crinkle at her words, not quite understanding what she’s getting at. And how could he? He is so sheltered from the cruel reality of the world, knows nothing about the hatred fostered between Dorne and the Lannisters. it seems that she is the person that will pay for the actions of her grandfather, in another war long ago. 

Tommen has no idea that she’s a prisoner, a hostage to guarantee the Lannister’s cooperation with the Dornish.

“Well at least you’re here now.” Tommen allows with another frown as he turns his gaze out to the sea.

There’s a long pause before Tommen speaks again.

“Cella, come and take a look at this bird. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it.” Tommen remarks, confusion colouring his tones.

She stands and makes her way over to the balcony; following Tommen’s pointing hand to the horizon.

She squints against the haze of sunlight, eyes slowly coming into focus as she gazes at the creature. It does look like a bird, albeit a rather large one.

And then the single bird splits into three, and her blood runs cold for a moment. She can feel the hairs on the back of her neck start to stand up, her heart racing and her mouth dry. She's only ever felt that fight or flight response once before, deep in the deserts of Dorne as a dagger split her skin and took her ear for good measure.

“Tommen we have to get inside.” She finally gets out as she grips her brother’s hand quietly. “We have to get inside now.” She repeats urgently as Tommen turns to look at her.

“But don’t you want to see what sort of birds they are Cella?” He asks innocently, and her heart squeezes because he’s still such a child, born into the wrong family and given too much responsibility too soon. It is his only crime, and he will probably pay for it with his life.

She hears a roar from far away and the blood rushes from her face. She’d heard whispers of them across the sea, a young Targaryen Queen with three children.

_Dragons._

And now they were here in Kings Landing.

Tommen finally seems to cotton on to the clear and very present danger as he allows her to drag him from the gardens. They keep to covered areas, and she glances up at the sky just in time to see the sun blocked out.

Her world plunges into darkness. And then it turns to fire and ash.

 

* * *

She awakes with a gasp, the smell of smoke heavy in the air. Her cheek is pressing into the stone cold floor, and every muscle in her body screams in protest as she raises herself to a sitting position. 

Tommen sits opposite her clear across the room, head buried in his hands and crown knocked askew. She didn’t want to say it, but the chances of either of them living to see the next week was highly unlikely. 

She wasn’t even supposed to be here. It had been one of the Sand Snakes that had suggested that she go and visit her mother and brother in Kings Landing. Looking back on it now, she can’t help but think it a pre meditated move. The city had been restful, and a ship to Dorne was ordered to wait as long as she needed. It was a kindness that had not been spared to her for many a year since she had been fostered in the desert kingdom.

She had been treated as a princess in Dorne. The Martell family had been civil with her, but never truly made her feel as if she belonged. And how could she, in a strange kingdom far away from where she had grown up?

They had tried to put her on the throne once, back when she was younger and easily swayed to their way and manner of thinking. Girls could inherit in Dorne, were treated so much more kindly there than in any other part of Westeros. Girls could make their own way in the world, answer to no one.

Always the third, always the spare, and always looked down on by her family, for not having a cock between her legs when she was born.

And a part of her knew deep down that she would receive no aid from Dorne this time. They had shown their hand, and had revealed that they would rather have a dragon on the throne than a lion.

And so it goes.

* * *

Strange men with bells in their hair appear on her and Tommen’s second day of imprisonment, because really, how else could it be described?

They are wild and unfamiliar and she shrinks back in fear as the roughly grab Tommen, shaking him from his slumber and dragging him kicking and screaming from the chamber. She beats her fist against the heavy wooden door, screaming for her brother, for the men to bring him back to her.

And then she sinks to the floor with a soft moan.

She cries herself to sleep that night, because she knows that she’s not going to see her brother alive in this life.

She can scarcely remember how she passes the time. She sleeps, and in between water and food seemingly materialise in her rooms. She paces, counting things. She counts the tapestries first, big things that she can see. But she soon grows, bored, restless as she begins to pull her gowns from her trunk, laying them all out on her bed before packing them away again.

She does this two or three times a day.

She doesn’t know why she does it. It’s a distraction, a way to keep her mind occupied against her troubled thoughts.

She watches the passage of the sun and the moon, forced to sit and wait out her fate. In the darkest hours of the night she sits, arms wrapped around herself as she calculates how far she would have to fall from the window to have a quick death. An easy death, and one without pain.

They come for her on the sixth day. She is ready. The men that accompany her to the throne room are just as unfamiliar, just as wild and untamed as those that had dragged her brother to his death. They are not gentle with her, and march her between them like she is a common criminal.

The dress she wears is crimson red, Lannister red. It is vivid enough to give anyone pause, and she hopes that it will have the same effect on the Queen.

The colour of blood is one that you do not forget easily.

* * *

She’s never sat the Iron Throne herself. She knew well enough that it was never her place, that it never would be her place. But she knows the story well, the melted down swords that make the seat so uncomfortable.

Today, the Iron Throne seems to almost swallow Daenerys Targaryen. The other girl isn’t wearing a crown. But somehow she seems to radiate power, staring imperiously at her from above like she’s nothing more than an ant to be crushed with a boot.

The two men, Dothraki she realises suddenly as she glances around the throne room forces her to her knees. But she is a Lannister, and shows no signs of deference to this upstart Queen, the woman who has most probably murdered her brother in cold blood.

She’s heard tales of the madness that seems to run thick and strong in the veins of the Targaryen’s. She wonders if it is present in this new Queen. The way that she took the city, bathing it in fire and blood would seem to suggest so.

“I’ve deliberated for a long time over what to do with you.” The Queen begins and she has to hide her surprise at just how soft her voice is. It’s a strange contrast to the steely exterior that she displays for everyone else.

“You see, I know what it’s like to be an unwilling pawn in the plots and machinations of others. I care not for your parentage, but I care about the threat you pose to myself and my kingdom.”

She remains silent, squeezing her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry because, Tommen, Tommen, her sweet brother is all she can think about right now, the terrified look he’d given her when he’d been dragged kicking and screaming from the room.

Her sweet brother, who she would never gaze upon again.

“I do not believe in unnecessary cruelty.” Daenerys continues as she forces herself to look at the Queen once more. “I do not want to be your enemy, and I know that you care for your brother above all else. It is for this reason that he has been confined to Storm’s End. I could not however, extend the same courtesy to your mother. She was executed yesterday.”

She nods once to herself, sending a prayer to the Seven that her mother finds more peace after death than she ever did in life.

“In the absence of your mother, it falls to me to decide what must be done with you next. I had half a mind to send you back to Dorne before I was advised of a more elegant solution.”

Daenerys glances sideways, but she does not follow her gaze. She had seen the familiar figure of her Uncle, the one who had betrayed his family and kingdom. She will not give Tyrion Lannister the satisfaction of gazing upon his face once more. She does not want to see the pity she is sure to find there.

"Your Uncle told me that you were fond of the North as a child. I recognise and take into account your former titles. Robb Stark was a great ally to me in a time of great need, and I have allowed him to secede and govern Winterfell separately from the rest of Westeros. You will go North, and the two of you will wed one day when you are older.” Daenerys finishes with an odd smile on her face.

She freezes, eyes finding the young Targaryen quickly. She knew well of Robb Stark’s exploits in the field of battle. They are nothing short of legendary. They called him the Young Wolf, a monstrous direwolf snapping at his heels everywhere he rode. 

Someone to be respected. Someone to be feared.

“A Queen you shall be. It’s what you always wanted wasn’t it?” Daenerys asks coolly, a cruel smile spreading across her face.

It takes every ounce of strength to not melt to the ground. But she juts her chin out defiantly, and she sees the shadow of doubt in the eyes of the Queen.

She is not porcelain. She is ivory, she is steel. She is the rock in the stream that alters the course of water.

 _Ours is the fury._ The fury is hers. 

She never wanted to be a Queen. Not if this was what it cost her.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The news that the war was over and Daenerys Targaryen sat the Iron Throne arrived on the wings of a raven, just after he and his men had surrounded the Twins, determined to wait them out until every last one of them had been driven mad by starvation. In the end he had put the castle to torch, determined to bring about an end to this and return North. Return home.

He would spill no more northern blood when it came to the Frey’s, not when they had killed his mother in violation of every guest law known to Westeros. He had sent her to treat with Walder Frey on his behalf, his attention required elsewhere as they attempted to win back the north that he had lost so easily.

He had sent a small force north to Deepwood Motte, to assist the forces of Stannis Baratheon in relieving the castle from the Bolton usurpers. The arrival of their forces had been most welcome he was informed, Stannis’ men having nearly froze to death before they could make a move to take back the castle.

He’d been in his tent when the tidings had arrived, and had read the missive quickly. He’d only met Daenerys Targaryen once when he’d replenished the stores of her army so they had enough energy to finish the long march south.

He’d been most surprised to see his half brother, Jon Snow amongst her ranks, wearing armour as black as night and carrying a flaming sword. He was Jon Targaryen now, legitimised as the nephew of the young Dragon.

Daenerys had been blunt and to the point, and had agreed to allow Winterfell and the North to secede from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms should she be successful in her conquest of Kings Landing. She had no interest in the frozen wasteland that he called home she had informed him. She was born from fire, and would thrive in the South far more than she ever would in the North.

She had his recognition as King in the North in return for his assistance in a time of great need. In truth, he had wanted to see the back of her and her dragons as quickly as possible. They were unnatural creatures, and theirs was an uneasy alliance that balanced on the edge of a knife.

He knew as well as she did that he was King only by her grace, and that if she wanted she could take back the North before he could even do anything to stop her.

But it wasn’t that part of her missive that troubled him. Rather it was the news that he was apparently betrothed to Myrcella Baratheon.

He remembered little of the Baratheon princess; she who would have been Queen of Westeros had Daenerys Targaryen not set foot on Westeros soil. She had visited Winterfell a lifetime ago, back when Robert Baratheon drank and whored his way through the passing of days, when it seemed like he would live forever.

She had been a shy and timid little thing, 6 years his junior and not at all talkative. She had been pretty even then, the resemblance to her mother quite eerie. She would grow up to be a beauty, he had been sure of it.

He had been kept up to date on the movements of the Baratheon children, although it was strongly rumoured that there was more Lannister blood in them than anything else.

He was aware that Myrcella had been fostered in Dorne, but could not comprehend why she had been in Kings Landing at the time of Daenery’s final strike against the city.

With a sigh, he slumps back into his seat, reaching for his wineskin. As King, he could write to the queen and inform her that it was not within his power to wed Myrcella Baratheon, but he had a feeling that her very life depended on his goodwill.

Daenerys letting Myrcella even live was a miracle enough, let alone sending her North out from underneath her watchful gaze.

But like his deceased father, he prided himself on being an honourable man, and knew that he would have to do his duty in this instance. He could not consciously leave Myrcella to die, an innocent in the plots and schemes of the Lannister family.

He only has to raise his voice a little.

“Greatjon.” He calls as the flap of his tent is lifted back almost immediately.

The giant of a man pauses in front of him, sweeping gaze taking in the tired expression on his face, the wearied set to his shoulders.

“How may I serve your grace?” The older man asks quietly, perhaps realising that he was in no mood to spar with words tonight.

The war had taken its toll on everyone, Robb more than anyone. With both parents dead it fell upon him to rebuild Winterfell, a task of enormous undertaking that he’s not even sure how to go about commencing.

And then there’s the task of tracking down any remaining Stark’s, if any were still running around Westeros.

There had been no word of Sansa and Arya since news of his father’s death had reached them, since he had taken the field of battle. He had hoped that they had escaped the cruelty of Kings Landing, but as months had passed without word he had quickly begun to lose hope that he would ever see either of them again.

Rickon he knew was on Skagos Island, and was even now making his way back to Winterfell in the company of one Davos Seaworth. How the boy had survived on that strange island he knew not, and if the rumours were true very little remained of the boy that was once known as Rickon Stark, his brother more savage than Northener.

He had not heard news of Bran either, did not know where to start looking for him, if he even should.

In fact, the only other person he considered family was Jon Snow, now Targaryen, and the Prince of Westeros. The truth of Jon’s parentage when conveyed to him by Daenerys had been a shock and he had not wanted to believe it at first.

Jon had flown South with a flaming sword, determined to bring about an end to the war in the seven kingdoms. It had been Jon that had subdued the Crownlands, 10,000 Unsullied soldiers at his command.

“I need you to ride South.” He finally answers the Greatjon, who had started to look concerned with his lack of response. “It seems that the Queen has seen fit to betroth me to Lady Myrcella Baratheon.”

The other mans eyebrows almost touch his hairline, his expression incredulous.

“Will you not ride South yourself your grace?” The Greatjon asks cautiously.

“No.” He takes a swig from the wineskin, relishing the taste of the sour Dornish wine that they had looted from the stores of The Twins before they had put it to torch. “No I will ride North with the rest of the men and assess what needs to be done at Winterfell.”

“It would be more proper-“ The Greatjon falls silent as he holds up a weary hand.

“Take twenty of our most trusted men. Lady Myrcella needs to be delivered to Winterfell safely and without any harm befalling her. Can I trust you to carry out this task?”

“You can your grace.” The Greatjon answers immediately with a short bow. “I will gather my men and leave at dawn tomorrow. If our travels fare well we shall see you before the month is out.”

He nods as a way of thanks before the Greatjon disappears, the flap of the tent falling into place once more.

Tomorrow he would be up before the sun, supervising the breaking up of the camp and leading the long march North to Winterfell.

But tonight at least he is still his own man, and so he tips the wineskin towards his mouth with another sigh.

* * *

Perhaps as a gesture of goodwill, the Queen allows her to roam freely around the Keep, provided that a guard tails her at all times.

She would find the lack of privacy frustrating, but her freedom is too generous a gift and she will not waste it.

She sits quietly with Tommen, watching as the city rebuilds, the eyes of passer by’s sliding past them like they do not even matter. It has been said that the true victims of war were the mothers who sent their sons off to battle, the wives who farewelled their husbands.

But it is not true.

The true victims of war are children.

And perhaps they don’t matter. It is by the grace of the Queen that they are allowed to live, and as much as she loathes to admit she owes a great debt to the Targaryen Queen. For letting Tommen live. For letting her live.

Tommen doesn’t speak, a purpling bruise shadowing his jaw line and she wonders what they did to him, how long and hard they beat him for before they showed him some small form of mercy. How many bruises he has that aren’t visible to her, that are hidden only under his clothes.  

But he sits silently with her, hands clasped around hers as she rests her head against his shoulder carefully. And that is enough for now.

Word arrives from the North, by the hand of Robb Stark. It contains tidings, and thanks for Daenerys most gracious gift. Like she was nothing more than property to be traded away. She reads the letter out loud to Tommen, wondering how she would react to the news that they would be separated once more, the physical distance between them as far as one could get in the Seven Kingdoms.

Later she holds the letter to the flame and watches the signature of her future husband melt away, an untidy and boyish scrawl across the bottom of parchment.

She had however, gleaned a few things from his letter, things that concerned her and her fate. The Young Wolf seemed more than intent on riding North to Winterfell, to assess and begin repairing some of the worst of the damage before the winter truly set in and they were overwhelmed by the elements.

As it stood, he would not be riding South to greet her properly. Instead, a retinue of twenty of his most trusted men were even now on the approach to King’s Landing. The assurance of the trustworthiness of these men was expressed most emphatically in writing. Their group once departed would be small enough to travel at speed, and large enough to warn off the most foolhardy of bandits and looters along the road.

The Queen was built from fire and ash, and knew very little of the perils of ice. But like the north, Myrcella remembered. Long ago before she had been marred, skin splitting and rending and tearing beneath a dagger of the purest black, desert winds blowing around her and the blood.

She remembered the bite of winter, the ache that settled deep into her bones whenever she stepped outside. She remembers a young girl with the world at her feet and too many dreams. She doesn’t think that she could ever forget.

Before she could even request it, the Queen bestows upon her a gown of sapphire blue, of the finest cut and make found in these seven kingdoms. It is lined with ermine, thick enough to keep her warm on the long ride north.

Tommen leaves for Storm’s End the next morning, where he will be joined by Jon Targaryen. The elder will act as a guardian of sort’s for Tommen, raising him and teaching him as if he were his own.

The men from Winterfell arrive the next evening, and they accept the Queen’s hospitality graciously. She sees all from her window, the unease in which they interact with the guards, the restlessness they feel at being caged within the walls of the Red Keep.

She herself is restless that night, and tries to hold onto the hours as they slip away from her, of the memories of her childhood here, ripped away by blood and by war and by ruin. The absence of Tommen cuts deep like a knife, and once more she is helpless to stop her tears from slipping down her cheeks.

It is in the early hours of the morning that she gives up on sleep and dresses for the journey. She hates the thought of putting on a riding dress, instead reaching for the tunic and leggings in the very back of her wardrobe. They were clothes that she oft wore in Dorne, when she was doing some hard riding with one of the Sand Snakes.

She had learnt many things in Dorne.

Sturdy leather boots lace up her calves, and a belt goes around her waist to hold the tunic in place. She slips a dagger into each boot. Her cloak is a deep blue, of fine cut and cloth and it whispers against the stone floor as she slips out of her chambers.

She leaves the dress from Daenerys behind.

* * *

The Red Keep is quiet, it’s occupants still asleep. A guard at the door falls into step behind her quietly, shadowing her as she finally steps outside and into the courtyard beyond.

She’s not sure why her footsteps lead her to the Godswood beyond the walls of the Keep. She has never been familiar with the Old Gods, so alien and unfamiliar they are to her and to her family.

She’s surprised to see another familiar figure kneeling before the great weirwood tree.

“You.” She hisses through clenched teeth as her Uncle pulls himself to his feet and turns to her. The traitor, the Lion turned Dragon. The third head of the dragon that had come to be both revered and feared throughout all the lands.

“Hello Myrcella.” Tyrion Lannister returns evenly. “I hear you are to be wed.”

He doesn’t flinch when she slaps him across the face, hard enough that her palm stings from the effort. An outline of her hand blooms almost instantly on his pale skin, but her Uncle doesn’t tear his eyes away from her.

She is marked now, just as he is, scar roping across his face, splitting it grotesquely down the middle like a mask in a mummers play. He seems as unaffected by his scar as she is by hers.

“You betrayed us. Betrayed me.” She bites out through gritted teeth. Uncle Tyrion had forever been her favourite, and she had not wanted to believe his betrayal when informed by her mother by letter.

She still remembers that day, the elated tone that her mothers letter had contained, like it was all a game and she had won a great victory. It was also the day that she began to trust the people around her a little less.

Tyrion flinches as if he’d been slapped once more. He steps to the side and with a nod dismisses her guard. The man lingers uncertainly on the fringes of the Godswood before nodding to himself and taking his leave of them.

As a rider of a dragon, Tyrion wields great power in this new court.

“I am _sorry.”_ The last word comes out in a whisper. And for a moment she can see the regret he wears before it slips away like a mask.

“Was it worth it? Your childish need to prove your worth and your desire for revenge against those who had wronged you? Was it worth it?” She asks through the tears that have sprung up traitorously in her eyes.

Tyrion stares at her for a long time, sympathy in his eyes.

“Yes.”

She’s stunned, her mouth opening and closing as she blinks at her Uncle. And it’s the realisation that hurts the most, the one that tells her that perhaps she didn’t know her Uncle at all.

She turns on her heel, and she doesn’t look back.

* * *

If Daenery’s Targaryen looks surprised to see her waiting with her horse saddled and ready to leave she doesn’t show it. Instead, the Queen lets a sly smile curl at her lips as she waves a man forward.

The man looks frustrated at being commanded by a Queen that is not his own, but steps forward anyway.

“This is the Greatjon Umber.” Daenerys begins in a low voice. “He is one of Robb Stark’s most trusted banner men and has come to take you North.”

“Well met Greatjon.” She begins mildly, holding out a hand for the Greatjon to take. He grips it firmly, surprise painted across his features at the lack of a curtsey, especially from one such as herself.  

“Well met Prin-“ He corrects himself at the last moment, an alarmed glance towards Daenerys who remains silent at his error. “Well met Lady Baratheon.” He instead says, inclining his head respectfully towards her.

She drops his hand and steps away, back to the safety and comfort of her mount. He was a Dornish steed, accustomed to and bred for extreme weather be it heat or cold. She hoped that he was hardy enough to survive the Northern winters.  

She had named him Abraxas, a great warrior of old from the tales she was taught. He had commanded much power and influence in his time. Born a commoner he had won the love of his people, and had won a great victory against an ancient evil.

“Do you have what you need before we set off?” The Greatjon asks in a surprisingly gentle voice. She nods, gesturing to her saddlebags strapped to the back of Abraxas.

“Everything I have is with me.” She confirms as she turns towards Abraxas.

She didn’t have many material possessions to take with her. The Southron dresses, made from delicate silk and lace would not be suitable for the frigid conditions of the North. Anything that held sentimental value was probably still in her quarters at Dorne, or in the case of Tommen on horseback riding to Storm’s End.  

“Allow me to assist my lady.” A voice echoes from over her shoulder as she turns her head. She recognises him, although it has been some years since she has seen him.

The man laces his fingers together for her, bending low so that she may use his shoulder to push off from. She does so easily, well accustomed to mounting in this way down in Dorne.

“You are Jon Targaryen.” She states with a bitter smile. Once Jon Snow, she remembers the boy well from the North. He had been a lot younger, but he was still as handsome as he was now.

“Well met Princess.” He says in a low voice so his Aunt may not hear him. “I hope the North is to your liking. I would be grateful if you would be so kind as to send my regards to my cousin.”

She nods once in confirmation.

“I will convey your well wishes to the King.” She replies just as quietly, bending down to adjust the buckle of her stirrup.

Jon grips her boot briefly. It’s familiar and entirely inappropriate in the current setting but his body is shielded from view by her and Abraxas. And they are to be family after all, once she is wed to Robb.

“Robb is a good man. An honourable man. He will see that you are treated well. You need not be afraid of him my lady. Remember that stories are just often that.” Jon allows with a wry smile.

She blushes as she lets her hair fall over her face. Although she’ll never admit it out loud his words are a comfort to her. She’s heard a great many tales about the Young Wolf, about his deeds and exploits. She scarcely knows what is true and what is false anymore, the amount of rumours that swirl around him.

She’s surprised then, when Jon gestures for a guard to approach, before releasing her boot and stepping back and away from her.

He takes the parcel from the guard before tucking it into one of her saddle bags.

“A cloak to keep you warm on the road and in the North. I had a feeling that you were not one for dresses.” He remarks amusedly as she glances towards the Queen.

Daenerys is watching both of them carefully, still too far away to be able to hear their conversation properly.

“Thankyou Jon.” She pauses, at loss as to how to ask her next request. “Would you look after my brother for me please? He is a gentle boy, and not one for violence and bloodshed.”

A look of understanding seems to come over Jon’s features as he nods.

“He will be taken care of as if he were mine own blood. This I promise. I’m sure he will be most eager to write to you once you are both settled in to your new homes.”

The relief she feels at those words are palpable, and she doesn’t know how to properly express her gratitude. She did not have the acquaintance of many men, but she knew that Jon Targaryen was a good man, even if she did not care much for his aunt.

Jon seems to have guessed the direction of her thoughts, because he glances once at a very impatient Greatjon Umber before offering her a sweeping bow.

“Safe travels Princess.” He says loudly with a wry smile. There it was again, that dangerous word. There was no doubt now that the first time he called her that was calculated, not a mistake.

With a clattering of hooves the Greatjon soon joins her on his own mount as he salutes the Queen with a nod.

“Thankyou for your hospitality your grace.”

“You are welcome anytime Greatjon Umber. Safe travels Lady Baratheon.” The Queen directs towards her, the hint of a smile again threatening to overtake her features.

 _You win or you die_ she reminds herself, and returns the smile with the grace of a queen.

The men fall in around her on their own mounts, the striking of hooves against cobblestones as she pulls her hood up around her head.

By now the news of her betrothal must have spread throughout the city, but it was probably best to keep her face hidden.

She doesn’t look back as the company rides out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:
> 
> So obviously as an AU there are going to be a few plot points that are different here. Bear with me as I figure out the intricacies of this particular story!
> 
> I really wanted to do a Robb P.O.V here and see where his head is at. He has an enormous task ahead of him; rebuilding Winterfell, finding his family members etc. He will be affected by this war, some of which we’ll see later. 
> 
> He and Myrcella probably won’t meet until next chapter or chapter 4.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s a strange sort of freedom, being allowed outside of the walls of Kings Landing. She had not seen the land properly from the back of a horse before. When she was being shuttled between Casterly Rock and Kings Landing as a young princess, she had always travelled in the great wheelhouse with her mother.

When she had left Kings Landing to foster at Dorne, it had been by ship that she had been conveyed to the desert kingdom.

But this… this was something different entirely. This was freedom.

She looks back only once, and sees the three dark shadows circling Maegor’s Keep, their wings unfurling with a strange sort of majesty. Despite it’s size, Kings Landing fades away quickly until it is a mere dot on the horizon.

As quick as blinking, her childhood home fades into the distance. She travels in the middle of the company, hair tucked underneath her hood, the golden curls far too distinctive in this region of Westeros. She can only hope that they won’t ask her to cut it.

  
The rest of the men don’t talk to her, the lack of laughter and conversation almost suffocating in its intensity. The wars had been hard on everyone, possibly these men most of all. They didn’t have to fight dragons, but the North was harsh in a different kind of way.

Undoubtedly many of them resented having to travel so far across Westeros to fetch her, a journey that would be fraught with danger for those involved. Their party, although not well dressed, was large enough to draw attention to any bandits or highwaymen they might find along the Kings Road.

Perhaps sensing her uneasiness with the situation, the Greatjon keeps pace with her, speeding up when she does and slowing to a walk once she’s had enough of being jolted around in the saddle. She’s not accustomed to riding for so long and for so many hours on end, and can already feel her thighs chafing against the hard leather of her saddle.

Despite the moderate pace of the column, the Greatjon seems eager to leave Kings Landing behind them, not ordering a rest until darkness had fallen. They find shelter in a copse of trees well away from the Kings Road, and she can only hope that they won’t be disturbed throughout the night.

A part of her thinks that she should do more to get to know the men around her, because if they are trusted subjects of Robb Stark then she herself will have to rely on them in the months and years to come if this marriage does end up going ahead. Whether she desires it or not, they will become her trusted men as well.

“We camp here tonight.” The Greatjon announces, dismounting from his horse and inspecting the area. “Tom, Rickard, take care of the horses. Brynden, get a small fire going. Sam, pitch a tent for the lady.” He rattles off the instructions in a gruff tone that means no nonsense, and the men all scramble to do his bidding.  

“That won’t be necessary.” She intervenes softly, tilting her gaze back towards the sky. Stars blanket the inky blackness in their millions, streaming across the sky like the tail of a comet. It was so unlike the skies over Kings Landing. “The night is clear. I do not mind sleeping on the ground.”

She actually did mind, but she supposes that the only way that she’s going to earn some small measure of respect from these men is if she eases the burden of their journey in any way that they can.

The Greatjon stares at her for a long moment, the expression on his face telling her that he knows exactly what she’s doing. Then he gives her a curt nod.  

“You heard the lady. Make sure she gets an extra blanket to cover herself with.” He barks towards Sam, who nods quickly and hands her the blankets as requested.

She thanks him with a soft smile, glancing around at the rest of the men.

And she might be imagining the respect she sees in their eyes before they quickly go about their own tasks.

And that night she muffles her cries with her cloak as she cries for Tommen and for the family that had been ripped away from her, and for the girl that she’d never be again.

 

* * *

 

She sees her first dead body along the road the next day. It’s swollen and disfigured and decaying, and the carrions are already picking away at it, the sound of flesh ripping from bone absolutely sickening.

She almost falls out of the saddle when she vomits over the side, the Greatjon gripping the back of her cloak to hold her steady. She accepts the skin of water he hands her gratefully, a concerned look painted across his features as she washes out her mouth and gulps down the water.

“I’m sorry.” She apologises. “I’ve never seen a dead body before today.” She remarks softly as sudden understanding dawns over the Greatjon’s face.

“Keep your head down and give me your reins. I can lead you for a few hours.” The older man replies kindly as she shakes her head emphatically.

“No. This happened because of my family didn’t it? I might as well see the result of our folly.” She murmurs, just loud enough for the Greatjon to hear her.

He shakes his head.

“No. Do not punish yourself over events that have long since passed my lady. The war has affected all of us, but it’s up to us to decide how we deal with it. Just by being here you are facing up to your family’s role in this. That alone speaks volumes for your character.”

A single tear slips down her cheek, one she wipes away hastily with a leather glove. She turns away from the Greatjon to look at the dead body once more.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For all of the destruction caused by my family.”

“Those words mean more than you’ll ever know my lady. I think you’ll be just fine up in the North.”

 

As the days melt away beneath the hooves of her mount, the landscape begins to change before her eyes. There hadn’t been much destruction in the Crownlands, but the further north it gets, the more awful the sight is.

The land itself is marred by war, and she becomes far too accustomed to the smell of the dead, of the sight of bodies piled high towards the sky. The simple fact remains that there are simply not enough able bodied men left to bury the dead, and so the carcasses remain for the animals to feast on.

The villages that are still whole or semi whole are deathly silent. The inhabitants scatter at the sound of hooves, the sound a no doubt unpleasant reminder of the destruction caused by Lannister, Stark, and Targaryen forces as they waged war for the Iron Throne, each of the leaders spurred on by various agendas.

The villagers that are brave enough to stand by the side of the road stare at them with accusing glares, and she takes extra care to keep her features well hidden beneath the hood of her cloak. In these instances, she usually drops back to the middle of the company, allowing the men to surround her and ensuring that she slips by unnoticed. A woman travelling with a group of men by herself is strange enough in these times.

The Greatjon hides the Stark standard in a saddlebag, and they end up abandoning the pole that holds the pennants and banners by the side of the road. It’s an unnecessary weight for the riders to carry, and the Stark banner is not always welcome in these parts. But for the most part, the villagers were not particularly happy about being under Targaryen rule either.

The people of the Riverlands were a people used to hardship, and they would rebuild and endure as they always did.

She soon got used to sleeping when she could, gaining snatches in the saddle when their pace slowed. She offered to take a watch one night, but she soon stopped offering when the Greatjon looked at her like she’d lost her mind.

But perhaps taking pity on her the man gives her other tasks. She helps to gather firewood after stopping one day. One of the men teaches her how to build a fire. Another shows her how to skin a rabbit after they’d been shot. It’s gruesome work but a valuable skill to have under her belt.

And slowly the rest of their company begin to warm to her. Her mother had always called Northmen unpleasant, but as she’d quickly come to learn, they were stoic and blunt and to the point because they didn’t see the purpose of being anything but.

Her mother had been wrong about a lot of things, and she doesn’t doubt that Cersei Lannister would be turning in her grave at the thought of her daughter marrying a Northmen.

 She would endure. It was after all, the thing that she did best.

 

 

The days slip by faster than she would have thought possible, and soon enough they are leaving the Riverlands behind and heading deep into the North.

There’s the slightest bite of winter, the wind whistling through the trees. She wraps her cloak around her tightly, smiling at the faint strains of the song the men at the front of the column are singing. Even the Greatjon is smiling faintly, no doubt far more at ease now that they are back in familiar territory.

“Will you tell me more of the North?” She asks of the Greatjon, who is startled out of his reverie by her question. He seems surprised by her line of questioning.

“Is this not something you learnt from your Septa when you were raised in Kings Landing?” The older man enquires politely. She shakes her head as a way of reply, golden curls spilling over her shoulder.  

Her hair has finally reached the point of being matted and tangled from lack of washing, and she knows full well that she smell awful. The rest of the column is not faring much better. She hadn’t expected to be staying in inns every other night, but she had at least hoped that she would have adequate time to bathe on occasion.

Even the rivers were not suitable for bathing in, dead bodies still floating through the water and tainting the river. She never considered herself of a lady of vanity, but the last thing that she wanted was to be presented to her betrothed smelling of sweat and of the land, the stink of war seeping into the very fabric of her tunic and breeches.

“My mother did not see fit for my Septa to dwell much on the North in my studies. Even in Kings Landing the North was considered a separate kingdom in all but name.” She remarks lightly, not wanting to bring up Ned Stark’s name, especially since it had been her brother who had ordered Ilyn Payne to take his head.

She hadn’t seen the actual beheading, but she’d heard the rioting of the crowd from The Keep, clear across the city. It had been Ned Stark’s beheading that had been the catalyst for so many things.

Robb Stark would never have entered the field of battle. They had all been so young, so innocent.  

The Greatjon seems unsurprised by this particular piece of information.  

“Aye that it was. Your father allowed Ned a great deal of freedom when it came to the governance of the North. What is it you would like to know my lady?”

Despite everything that had happened between their families, the Greatjon remained unflinchingly polite and courteous towards her. For that she was grateful, and she hoped that they could maintain this odd friendship when she was safely delivered to the North.

Travelling clear across Westeros had a strange way of bringing people together.

“Anything you can tell me would suffice Ser. I would like to know more of the area that my betrothed rules over.”

She very neatly chooses to leave her own role out of her statement, knowing that it would be far too soon to remind these men of her soon to be authority over them.

“Well the North is large.” The Greatjon begins. “It’s larger than all of the other six territories combined, and very sparsely populated. You know of the harshness of the winter. Even in summer sometimes we are blessed with snows.”

She wouldn’t consider it a blessing, but this was the North.

“And it is bordered to the North by the Wall is it not?” She asks, trying to get a sense for exactly how vast the kingdom is.

“Aye. And to the South is the Neck, with the Riverlands south of that. Northmen are descended from the First men. We are a tough breed, and have little time for the comforts and courtly rituals of the South. You will find it very different in the North my lady.”

“I am aware.” She says, an amused smile playing on her lips. “And what can you tell me of my future husband?”

“The King is a good man. Honourable.” The Greajon replies immediately, echoing the words of Jon Targaryen. “He is a fair and just ruler, and an even finer commander. I cannot fault him my lady, even if that accursed wolf did take two of my fingers.”

At that he pulls off his glove and wiggles his hand towards her, so she can clearly see the stumps where two of his fingers used to be.

“It seems we are twins.” She remarks with a quick and secret smile, pulling her hair back to reveal the ruined skin where her ear once was. “Does the King know of my marks?”

The Greatjon hides his surprise well; in fact he barely reacts to her scars.

“He is aware and cares not. He has many scars of his own, some more visible than others.”

She doesn’t miss the troubled expression that crosses the Greatjon’s face, even if it is only for an instant. The older man schools his features into an impassive expression.

“You seem comfortable with your own scars my lady. If you don’t mind me asking…” The Greatjon asks the question in the same brusque manner he always does, and she has to stop herself from visibly flinching, gloved hands tightening briefly on her plaited reins.

No one would ever have dared asked her that question in the South.

An unpleasant smile twists at her lips as she glances around at the other men. They are a fair distance away that she feels she can speak freely without being judged.

“The Dornish wished to strike against my mother, forcing Dorne into a war against the iron throne. They plotted to put me on the throne, and convinced me to travel with them to Kings Landing under the guise of visiting my brother. I was of course, more than eager to travel with them if it meant that I got to visit my home.”

The Greatjon is silent, seemingly content to let her continue speaking unhindered.

“I left a decoy at Dorne, my movements known to very few. There was a man travelling with us, Gerold Dayne. They called him the Darkstar. He tried to kill me, but failed. Instead he left me marked, and promised to come back and finish the job someday.”

“He will not get close enough to try. You have my word my lady.” The Greatjon vows as she glances at him in surprise. The older man, although kind had always seemed prickly, a little aloof.

She has to blink back the sudden onset of tears in her eyes. He had shown her the most kindness out of anyone since they had set out for The North. She would not forget it.

“How is he really Greatjon?” She dips her voice low, pulling her mount closer to his so they would not be overheard. “Tell me truthfully.”

The Greatjon looks uncomfortable, but she has given him a direct order that he cannot refuse. Not now.

“He was not well when I left him Lady. He would not rest until he burnt the Twins to the ground, along with everyone still inside it. After, he would wake up screaming in the night.”

She stares straight ahead, trying to reconcile this fresh horror with the boy she once met a lifetime ago in Winterfell, playing at war with blunted swords in the practice yard.

“Has he been drinking?” She asks softly, well aware of the effect that the drink can have on men who use it in excess. She had seen it happen in her father far too often to count.

The look on Greatjon’s face tells her all she needs to know.

 

* * *

 

Outriders from the camp of the King in the North greet them the next day, and immediately the mood of the company is lifted. The promise of a warm tent to sleep in and a fire to warm themselves by has many of the men laughing and joking with the outriders.

She herself warms to the idea of a hot bath and a pallet to sleep on, of not having to constantly be on guard for knives in the dark or dangers on the road. It had been a long ride, and a hard one with the cold settling in, and the thought of making her home in Winterfell was a welcome one.

It’s the smell that she experiences first; thousands of men all camped in the same small area. It reeked of manure and shit, and she has to cover her mouth with her cloak to stop herself from gagging.

Their party crests a hill suddenly, and she has to tighten her reins to stop her horse from bolting, the sudden cacophony of sound startling to her senses. Stark banners are on display everywhere, whipping against the cold winter wind even as snow swirls around the encampment.

The land around them is torn and ravaged, but the men are in high spirits.

“Fall in.” The Greatjon barks as the column tightens around her. One of the outriders leans close to the Greatjon, murmuring something in his ear, no doubt directions to where she’ll be sleeping.

She’s surprised at the closeness of the men, but when their column proceeds further into the encampment she can see why. There’s a certain sullenness about the men, and some stare at her with open hatred. She can understand why really. Her family name carries a lot of weight in the North, and not necessarily for the right reasons.

Unbidden she shivers, pulling her cloak more tightly around herself.

The centre of the camp is dominated by a massive tent, and as they pull into the open space before it a tall woman with auburn hair pushes the flap aside and steps out into the weak sunlight.

Sansa Stark was almost unrecognisable. The hair was unmistakeable of course, but this tall, wearied woman was not the young girl that came to her in Kings Landing. This was not the girl who loved lemon cakes and had such a romantic view of life at court.

This was a girl that was hardened against the world, a girl who had manipulated and been manipulated, a girl who had seen and done awful things in the time that she’d been apart from her brothers and sister.

Sansa turns that dark gaze upon her, eyes probing, trying to figure out her intentions. She dismounts, sweeping a curtsey for The Lady of the North, second only to the King. It’s with a cold nod that Sansa returns her greeting.

“My Lady Sansa.” The Greatjon takes the knee, and the transformation in Sansa’s face is unmistakeable, a soft smile gracing her lips.

“Be welcome Lord Umber. How was your journey?” Sansa enquires politely as the Greatjon rises, beginning to bark out orders to some soldiers standing idly by. Soon enough her horse is led away and the rest of the company begins to disband.

“As well as can be expected my lady. You’ve made slow progress. We expected you to be ensconced in Winterfell by now.”

A troubled expression passes over Sansa’s face before it’s gone.

“I expect we’ll arrive within the next few days. We can assess what repairs will need to be completed once we do.” There’s a sense of finality in Sansa’s tone, but the Greatjon either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.

“Is the King not here to greet his future bride?” Greatjon asks, voice laced with disapproval as Sansa glances back uneasily towards the entrance to the King’s tent.

“The King is indisposed.” Sansa answers smoothly, trying to mask her obvious distress. Sansa was good, but she’d been brought up in Kings Landing. She was practically born to sniff out when someone was lying.

And although Sansa was good, it didn’t take a fool to see that she was lying through her teeth.

 "With all due respect Lady, I’d like to report to my liege lord, even if he can’t properly greet his bride.” The Greatjon takes a step towards Sansa, who in turn takes a step towards the entrance of the tent, planting herself in front of the flap.

“I am the Lady of Winterfell Lord Umber. While the King is indisposed, I rule over these men. That includes you.”

She watches the interaction carefully, noting the dark circles under Sansa’s eyes that could only be brought about by worry and by lack of sleep.

“If the King is unwell, as his general I have a right to speak to him, to discuss how to best command the men and complete this return to Winterfell.”

Sansa steps aside finally, waving Greatjon forward into the tent.

“You should come as well Lady Myrcella. You may as well see what you’re getting yourself into.” Sansa’s voice is soft, and perhaps a little apologetic.

The first thing she notices is that the tent is stifling hot. There’s a fire pit dug into the ground, flames flickering and casting strange shadows on the walls of the tent.

She trips over an empty bottle, eyes noting the remnants of the dark liquid inside. Robb Stark, the King in the North, is utterly and completely drunk, if the huddled figure on the pallet is anything to go by.

Sansa is shooting her a glance now, hands twisted in the skirts of her dress as she talks quietly to the Greatjon.

“He’s been getting worse the further North we get. The men pretend not to notice, but I can sense their uneasiness with their liege lord. I’ve tried to stop him but…” Sansa trails off, tucking her hair behind her ear, revealing the purple shadow on her cheek that hadn’t been visible before.

Sansa and the Greatjon continue their conversation in hushed tones even as she drifts closer to the pallet, staring down at the man who would be her husband. His eyes are closed and his chest is rising and falling evenly and that in and of itself is a small mercy, because it means that he won’t have to be induced to vomit.

A thin sheen of sweat covers him, shirt sticking to his chest and auburn curls sticking to his forehead. She suppresses the urge to smooth the hair away from his skin.

“Water.” She murmurs, more to herself than anyone else. “We need water, now.” She snaps as Sansa and Greatjon turn to her, surprise writ plain across their features.

“Get rid of the wine.” She instructs the Greatjon. “The men won’t be happy, but get rid of it. Burn it, drink it, pour it out, I don’t care. But it can’t be around him.”

Sansa stares at her for a long moment, and for a minute she just knows that she’s overstepped her bounds. But then the other woman is nodding at the Greatjon, crossing the tent and scooping a jug into a bucket of water.

“You’ve had some experience with this before.” Sansa remarks mildly, handing her the jug as she picks up a goblet from the desk and washes it out before filling it.

“I never experienced it first hand. But it was common knowledge that my father was a drunk.” She replies as sudden understanding comes across Sansa’s face. “I know enough to know that it’ll be bad for him if this gets out.”

The Greatjon is at the entrance to the tent, barking orders at the guard outside, the sound of hurrying footsteps and cheers not taking long to begin as the order is spread through the encampment.

Robb still sleeps, and she is reluctant to wake him. But he will need the water sooner rather than later if he is to be well enough by tomorrow. It’s Sansa that reaches down with a gentle hand, shaking Robb’s shoulder.

The King wakes suddenly, with a gasping breath and a swinging first. Sansa ducks to avoid it and goes sprawling on the ground, the Greatjon pressing a hand to the young king’s chest, forcing him back onto the pallet.

“Control yourself.” The older man barks, even as Robb’s eyes settle on his, realisation dawning.

“Well met Greatjon.” Robb coughs out, even as Sansa climbs to her feet, her face flushed with embarrassment. “Have you delivered my bride to me alive and well then?” Robb pushes against the Greatjon’s hand, the other man letting him sit up.

“I have Your Grace. She is with us now.” The Greatjon answers uneasily, as Robb’s eyes land on hers.

She had not expected the warmest of welcomes from her betrothed given the history between their two families, but she was surprised to see the visceral hatred in his eyes, the dismissive way he looked her over.

_He doesn’t want me._

The realisation is like a slap in the face, and she holds the goblet of water out like a peace offering, hiding her sadness and disappointment.

“Your Grace. You will have need of this before the night is through.”

Robb says nothing as he takes the goblet from her, eyes still upon hers as he drains the water and casts the goblet aside.

“Lady Lannister.” He pauses, before glancing between all three of them. “Get her out of my sight. All of you leave. Now!” Robb snaps before slumping back down onto the pallet, back turned towards them.

Sansa rises gracefully, a hand held out to her even as the Greatjon glares at Robb’s back.

“Come Lady Myrcella. I will show you to your tent. I’m sure you’ve been dying for a bath.”

It’s not until she pushes her way out into the cool, winter air that she realises her cheeks are wet with tears.

_He doesn’t want me._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I know, its been ages since I updated this one right? I wanted to take some time to focus on my writing for other fandoms, but this story has always been back of mind, and I always do my best to ensure that a story is always completed. 
> 
> I’ve always been really interested in the effect that war has on soldiers in regards to PTSD, and so it was interesting to explore that with Robb here. I can’t imagine he’d be pleased with marrying the daughter of his enemy, and I can certainly imagine that he would be profoundly affected by all that he did and saw in battle, especially in his capacity as commander. I also wanted to explore the parallels between Robert Baratheon and Robb Stark here- Robert was once a great fighter and a great king before he started drinking. Time will only tell if Robb will take that same path or if Myrcella will prevent this from happening.
> 
> Myrcella has always felt like a stranger in her own kingdom, so to experience this up in the North is heartbreaking for her, even as she begins to realise that she may never truly be able to call anywhere a home.


	4. Chapter 4

Winterfell was a shell of what it once had been. The ancestral seat of the Stark family, their seat of power and the capital of the North, was a ruin. 

The once soaring walls had been battered and broken into disrepair, the turrets gaping with holes. Rubble was strewn all around, evidence of a great battle that had taken place between the forces of Stannis Baratheon and the Bolton boy, Ramsay. 

Smoke curled above what was left of the walls, some of Robb’s men having ridden ahead to make the castle as habitable as possible. 

Even their best efforts had not been enough, not without more stone and glass from the South, supplies that would be months away, perhaps longer with the coming of Winter, with snow creeping over the land. 

From her vantage point further back in the train of soldiers, she can see the way Robb stiffens when he looks upon his home once more, sees the weight of his guilt settle around his shoulders like a shroud. 

If only he had ridden North when he had heard the news of the Ironborn attack, perhaps things would be different. Perhaps Robb would have more than just his sister. 

She can feel his grief and sorrow rolling off him in waves, and she’s still trying to comprehend what she’s seeing. She remembers poking her head out of the great wheelhouse she’d travelled in the first time she’d come to Winterfell, when she’d been a girl with too many dreams. 

She remembered the ghost of that memory, of the awe that she felt upon looking at the great Keep for the first time. She’d not seen anything like it, despite being born and raised in Kings Landing. 

Now it was nothing but dust, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth as she reaches forward to calm the nerves of her skittish mount. Abraxas been almost untameable since they’d set off this morning with the rest of the camp, prancing nervously along with the rest of the soldiers. 

It had been a task in and of itself, to try and keep him from bolting. It was if he not only sensed her uneasiness, but sensed that he was a long way home. Arbraxas was not cut from the same cloth from these Northern horses, and she could only hope that he was hardy enough to handle the conditions of the harsh Northern lands. 

She hears a shout from the head of the column and they are moving again, cresting the hill beyond. She leans back into the saddle as they pick their way down the short slope, and then it’s flat land all the way to the remaining walls of Winterfell. 

She loosens out the reins, letting Abraxas take the bit as she leans back in the saddle with a soft sigh.

“Alright?” The Greatjon’s voice is rough, and he doesn’t bother with names or with titles as he wheels his great warhorse in next to her, easily keeping pace with her own mount. She quite likes that about him.

“I’m fine.” She answers firmly, unsure if she was trying to convince him, or herself. She’s trying to put out like she’s unbothered by all that’s been going on for today, the way that her betrothed had all but ignored her, the only sign of acknowledgement a tense nod as he had strode past her to take his place at the front of the column. 

Because she wasn’t fine, not really. 

“No, you’re not.” The Greatjon replies knowingly. “Will you not ride with the king and his sister?”

Her gloved hands grip her plaited reins tighter, and she shakes her head once, firmly. 

“That is for the King to decide.” She replies through gritted teeth, trying not to show much Robb’s slight has hurt her. “He seems quite content without my company.”

_He doesn’t want me._

“The King is being a bloody fool.” The Greatjon voices furiously, a dark gaze cast towards the auburn haired figure sitting ramrod straight on his saddle. “He knows it as well as I do, he’s just too damn proud to admit it. His father was exactly the same.”

She says nothing as a way of reply, thighs nudging at Abraxas gently to urge him onwards, his hooves picking out a steady trail in the mud. 

“He’s seen violence and blood shed and is a changed man because of it. I won’t hold it against him.” She remarks lightly as a way of reply. 

The Greatjon stares at her for a long moment before reaching over and tugging off her hood, exposing her blanket of golden spun hair for the rest of the Northerners to see. She tries to snatch the material back before it slips onto her shoulders, but to no avail.

“Stop hiding.” He instructs her firmly. “We know who you are, and twenty of Robb Stark’s most loyal men care not. We have all seen bloodshed and violence my lady, you as well. It’s how we cope with the horrors of war that define our characters.”

She ducks her head to hide her faint blush at the compliment in his words. Greatjon Umber’s family was as Northern as one could get. To have his approval meant more than he could ever know. 

“You are a Northerner now my lady. You best start acting like one.”

* * *

 

No one bothers to tell her that dinner has started until she notices that it’s deathly silent beyond the small room that a maid had led her to a few hours previous. She smooths down the front of her dress that she’d found in the bottom of her trunk, one with long sleeves that her mother had obviously commissioned for a Kings Landing winter.

The material is decidedly thicker than the wisps of silk that she used to wear in the Red Keep, and although the colour is a bright, scarlet red, it will have to do for now. 

It’s with her head held high that she sweeps into the corridor beyond, traversing the path to Winterfell’s mostly intact Great Hall off memory alone. 

Her suspicions are proven correct when she pushes open the heavy wooden doors of the hall unaided, and sound turns to silence in the space of a heartbeat. 

The Great Hall is occupied to the brim with what remains of the Northerners, various factions of the army having broken off earlier in the afternoon to return to their own ancestral seats further North or to the East and West. What remained was all that was left of those who had once lived in Winterfell. 

She can feel countless pairs of eyes on her, some nervous titters as she tilts her head a little defiantly, gathers her skirts in her hands, and begins her steady progress down the length of the hall. Her mother had taught her everything she ever needed to know about how to command a room with her presence, and she draws on that knowledge in order to keep herself upright, and to keep her face from flushing with embarrassed colour. 

Her betrothed is staring at her openly, a neutral expression on his face and a goblet paused halfway to his lips. 

Propriety would dictate that she would sit at his side, but that place is taken by his sister and one of his generals. In fact, not that she is particularly surprised by this, but there is no open seat on the dais remaining for her. 

A few years ago, it would have been enough to have her running from the hall. But she’d been through far too much to care about something as insignificant as this, given everything that had happened since her time in Kings Landing. 

Her eyes meet Greatjon Umber’s briefly, the older man looking incensed at the obvious slight to her. She offers him a respectful nod as she stops before the dais. 

“Well met Your Grace.” Her voice is loud, projecting around the hall, the weight of a hundred stares on her back. “I’m glad to see that you are looking well. You must be relieved to be home once more.” 

Robb lowers his goblet to the table, blue eyes piercing hers as he takes measure of her. Her chin juts out defiantly as he continues to stare. 

“Well met Lady Myrcella. Welcome to Winterfell.”

She inclines her head towards The King in The North, feeling the gaping stares of his banner men and his sister, who looks slightly embarrassed at what’s unfolding in front of her. Perhaps someone here had finally remembered their manners. 

Rather than curtsey as she probably should, she instead picks up her skirts and turns to the left, searching the benches for an empty spot in which she can take her meal. She spots a space as close to the dais as she can get, next to a boy with broad shoulders and brown hair. 

He starts visibly when she slides onto the bench, and in the next moment sound floods back into the room with a muffled roar. Her heart is beating a violent rhythm, and her fingers bite into wood as she sucks in a deep breath. 

“Wine my lady?” The boy asks somewhat clumsily as he reaches for her goblet, the other hand reaching for the flagon sitting in the middle of the table. 

“Thank you.” She answers with a polite nod. “What’s your name?” She enquires, her manners and training taking over as she turns her upper body towards the boy. He’s handsome, she muses quietly to herself, a shock of dark brown hair and deep brown eyes. She’d put her age to be around the same as Robb’s, or perhaps a year or two younger. 

“Gendry m’lady.” He answers, avoiding her gaze as he hands her the goblet. 

“I’m Myrcella.” She supplies, reaching for some venison to fill her plate. 

“I know who you are m’lady.” The words tumble out of Gendry’s mouth before he can stop them, and he looks slightly shocked at his own forwardness. “Forgive me m’lady. I probably shouldn’t be talking to you.”

“We are talking to each other are we not?” She points out after a sip of wine, the tart flavour rich in her mouth. 

Gendry pauses for a moment, frown creasing his brow. 

“I suppose we are.”

It’s easy then, to fall into conversation with this boy who was so obviously from the South. She didn’t press further, wondering to herself what Gendry was doing so far from home. Had he no wife, no family of his own?

Everyone had their secrets, and she would not ask him to betray his own.

Some time later when she has had her fill Gendry stands and openly bows to her. It’s the first time someone has recognised her as more than a Lannister since she has arrived here, and unbidden, tears fill her eyes.

She blinks them away furiously as she gives Gendry a watery smile before he turns on his heel and takes her leave.

It’s not until she turns her head to the side that she sees Robb Stark, staring at her with a somewhat regretful expression writ across his features. He inclines his head towards her respectfully, an open acknowledgement of his impoliteness towards her previously.

She tries not to let hope bloom in her stomach as she stands from her spot, ducking him a low curtsey in respect of his position.

She had always been a proud person, the by product of the Lannister legacy, even if she had been a woman. She was a lion, always had been, always will be.

She takes her leave of the Great Hall, sweeping back to her room as quickly as she can, tears threatening to overwhelm her as she wrenches the door open, leaning against the hard wood, feeling the cold seep into her bones.

It comes first in great, gasping sobs, threatening to overwhelm her body as she claws at her dress, struggling to breathe around her panic, around the situation that she had been so neatly manoeuvred into by the Dragon Queen.

She had been banished from the only place that she had ever called home, torn apart from the only person she considered family. Her uncle Tyrion had lost privilege the moment he pledged his allegiance to Daenery’s Targaryen, but Tommen, sweet Tommen she would not see again for a long time.

She feels the fabric give beneath her hands, shedding her skin of Lannister crimson, the dress turning to tatters on her chamber floor as she sucks in a great breath of air.

Clad only in her shift, so it was that Myrcella of House Lannister, previously Princess of the Iron Throne, sat down on her bed and let herself finally break down and cry.

* * *

Sansa Stark’s gaze is unnerving, and she does her best to keep her eyes dipped towards her lap, concentrating on the shirt that she is sewing.

She could hear the men out in the yard, the chopping of wood and the rumbling of carts as they move stone to where it is needed. Despite the drop in numbers of able bodied men, Robb still had a veritable army to command, and much to everyone’s surprise had insisted on being present and partaking in the labouring. 

The ladies had been banished to the inside of the castle, a small circle who were clearly already acquainted with each other, their dresses made from simple cut and cloth, dyed a serviceable brown or grey. 

In contrast her own blue gown was a blaze of colour in an otherwise dull setting, and she couldn’t help but feel self conscious as she continued picking away neatly at the cloth with her needle. It had been Sansa Stark’s idea to begin replenishing the men with fresh clothing, and she could scarcely disagree with the logic of the other girl’s decision. 

She hadn’t necessarily been invited into this circle, but she refused to feel like a ghost in this place that she was forced to now call her home. If there was a way that she could make herself useful, of course she was going to put herself forward. 

“Has my brother set a date for your wedding Lady Myrcella?” Sansa enquires politely, red hair ablaze in the weak sunlight filtering through the glass window of the room. 

“I daresay he has more pressing concerns to worry about m’lady.” She returns politely as Sansa raises a single eyebrow. “I do not blame him for not setting a date.”

She’d heard only rumours of what Sansa had been put through since their separation in Kings Landing all those years ago. There had been whispers that she was to be betrothed to Willas Tyrell, but of course that fell through when she married into the Lannister family by way of her uncle Tyrion. Which technically had made Sansa her aunt at one point. 

After fleeing Kings Landing after the death of Joffrey, she had popped up in the Vale, an impregnable castle that had never been taken by any army. 

After that it was a mystery. There was some talk that it had been her cousin Jon Targaryen that had found her, had asked for her assistance in settling the Crownlands. Sansa had wielded the influence she had over her younger cousin, lending 10,000 men of the Vale to Jon Targaryen’s cause. 

“But surely you want to keep the Dragon Queen happy? The match was her idea was it not?” Sansa feigns politeness, and she meets the stare of the red haired Stark head on. 

“Yes, it was by her decree that your brother and I marry, and that I be separated from my only remaining family.” She replies, steel in her voice as she stabs her needle into the cloth in her lap, taking care not to sew it to her skirts. “The Dragon Queen can take up the issue of marriage with your brother if she wishes. I suspect she is allowing him time to rebuild his home.”

“Forgive me Lady Myrcella. I did not wish to upset you.” Sansa replies smoothly, bent over her own embroidery, the remnants of a dire wolf beginning to form in the grey fabric. A shirt for Robb perhaps. 

She pushes to her feet, resting her work on the table next to her, drawing the attention of the rest of the ladies. 

“Please excuse me. I find myself needing some fresh air.”

Sansa inclines her head in reply. 

“Of course Lady Myrcella. You are free to go where you wish within the walls of Winterfell.” Sansa’s voice is mild, with an underlying hint of steel. 

  
She doesn’t wait for Sansa to continue, turning on her heel and pushing her way out of the room and into the hallway beyond. She wraps her arms around herself at the draughtiness of the air, following the sound of voices and noise to another door that stands open, the courtyard of Winterfell visible beyond. 

  
The cold air is a shock to her, and she mentally berates herself for not thinking to pull her cloak around her shoulders before stepping outside. 

Dozens of men are spread around the yard, each carrying out various duties and responsibilities. Some are chipping away at the larger blocks of stone strewn around the place, remnants of a battle that claimed the lives of a large part of the the Bolton and Baratheon forces. 

Others are chopping wood brought in from the surrounding forests, making stores for the winter to come. Some of the men are taking the healthy horses they have left, ranging parties heading out beyond Winterfell to spread the message that the King in the North has returned to Winterfell once more, that a Stark sits in the Great Hall. 

They’ll come and bend the knee, the houses that chose not to follow Robb south to fight in the War of Five Kings. They’ll come and pledge their loyalty, and their swords, and their men. Maybe her betrothed will forgive them their cowardice, and perhaps he will not. 

Shouting and a few jeers draw her attention to the side of the yard, where a poor serving girl is doing her best to distribute water to the men. They touch her and jostle her, and the girl looks near like she’s about to burst into tears. 

“Stop!” She calls out, trying to make herself heard above the din, the girl cowering against the stone wall of the castle, basket held in front of her like a shield. She throws an elbow here and there, pushing her way past the ring of men to the girl, turning to face the crowd. 

“Have you no honour?” She raises her voice, staring down each of the men who had dared bother this girl. “Are women treated thus in the North?” 

The girl lets out a soft whimper as one of the braver men step forward, practically standing toe to toe with her. 

“And why should we listen to you? Lannister slut.” The man hisses just loud enough for the watching crowd to hear. 

She does her utmost to keep her expression neutral as the man very deliberately places his hand on her shoulder, and pushes her backwards. 

“Do we have a problem here?” The voice is quiet, but commands the attention of the crowd, who step aside for their King. 

  
Robb’s stare is hard as he steps into the circle, bright blue eyes taking in the scene laid out before him in moments. The serving girl cowering against the wall straightens, bobbing a curtsey towards her King, basket still held in her hands. 

  
“Cerwyn?” Robb asks quietly, his gaze landing on her, brow furrowing slightly as she meets his eyes. 

“No milord.” The man who had laid his hands upon her ducks his head, backing away slowly, looking very much like he would like to bolt. 

“My Lady?” Robb enquires softly, eyes never leaving hers as the crowd shifts uneasily around them, muttering breaking out amongst the men. 

She tears her gaze from her betrothed’s, eyes staring around at the crowd, none of whom seem to want to meet her gaze or are brave enough to speak now that their King is in their midst. 

“Some of the men were harassing this girl, pushing and jostling her about. I did not like to see her mistreated.” She finally replies, turning her gaze back towards Robb, who simply looks at her in silent understanding. 

“And nothing else happened, that I should be made aware of?” Robb replies, hand shifting to the pommel of his sword. It was a minute gesture, but one that was enough to draw the attention of every man standing around them.

She takes a breath in, wishing that she didn’t have to do this. 

“No my lord. I simply wanted the men to stop pushing her around.”

Robb gazes at her for a moment longer before turning back to his men. 

“If I see any of you mistreat a woman in any way again, I’ll be sending you North to the Wall. They could use some Northerners to replenish their men.” Robb raises his voice, and she listens as it echoes across the courtyard. “Back to work!”

The courtyard explodes into noise once more, the serving girl dumping the basket and fleeing to the safety of the castle. 

Robb turns to look at her over his shoulder, and she can’t help but think that he didn’t believe her lie for a single moment. 

* * *

“I have disturbed you. Forgive me your grace.” She murmurs quietly, dipping Robb a curtsey and turning to find the path leading away from the Godswood, back towards the castle.

She’d always been curious about the Old Gods, had found the Godswood strange and frightening when she’d been here as a little girl. She had wanted to see if she felt any different about the ancient and hallowed spot, witness to generations upon generations of Starks. 

“Stay.” His voice echoes around the space, and she freezes, glancing back over her shoulder. He’s gotten to his feet, his sword held loosely in his hand as he gestures for her to join him. 

Surprised by his request, she picks her way over to the rock beside him and perches upon it, hands clasped around her knees. Robb looks weary as he sits, continuing to polish his sword to a fine gleam.

“I have so many people demanding so many things from me. I like coming here sometimes, for a moment of peace. My father used to do it, when he was alive.” Robb begins speaking in a soft tone, eyes staring into the pool of dark water before him. 

She cocks her head to the side and listens, recognising that this is the most that she’s heard him speak since they’ve met. 

“You’re not what I expected my lady.” He surprises her, and unbidden her eyes meet his. 

“Myrcella, please your grace. I know that we come from very different worlds, but I am hoping that we can be at least on first name terms in these private moments.”

To her shock, Robb smiles. It’s a genuine one, a thing of beauty as it transforms his entire face. Fora moment he looks very much like the boy that she had admired from afar when she’d been younger. 

“Very well then Myrcella. You may call me Robb.” He replies with a chuckle. She can’t help but offer a smile in return. 

“What were you expecting?” She asks curiously, because she does want to know his thoughts, what he thinks of her. 

“I was expecting your mother. For you to be like her.” He hastens to explain upon seeing her somewhat confused expression. “Cold, distant. Aloof. Perhaps a little arrogant. How is it you are nothing like her?” He asks in wonderment as her fingers tighten in the fabric of her dress. 

It’s a question she asks herself sometimes, how is it that she did not turn out to be a mirror of her mother. They used to whisper about her own beauty, before she was scarred. They used to say that she would surpass her mother, one day. How her mother must have hated those whispers. 

“I was fostered in Dorne during my formative years. I imagine being away from the influence of my mother was probably a positive thing. She and I…” She pauses, unsure of how much she should reveal to him, already feeling vulnerable, stripped bare. “She and I had a complicated relationship.”

She reaches forward, plucking a stem of grass from the ground and twirling it between her fingers as Robb makes a soft noise of acknowledgement.

“My mother had always loved my brothers more than I. They were more useful to her you see. Joffrey was the King, and Tommen the heir apparent. I was forgettable, someone to be pushed into the background, noticed only when needed.”

“You were in Kings Landing when the Dragon Queen arrived.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question. 

“I would rather not talk about that day.” She says quietly to her hands as Robb sheathes his sword. 

“Of course, I’m sorry.” He remarks after a long pause. “I got a letter from Jon when we arrived, it seems he has a good set of ravens in Storms End. He spoke very highly of you. He also mentioned that your brother was doing well.” His voice is gentle, sympathetic almost.

“I’m glad. Tommen was always a gentle soul. And your cousin is a good man.” She replies with a sigh. “Thank you, for letting me know. You didn’t have too.”

Robb seems taken aback by her words. 

“Of course. You should write to your brother. I’m sure he would be delighted to hear from you after going such a long time without your company. I’m sure he will be eager to here about your travels to the North, if he’s anything like the young boy that I remember.”

She gives him a twisted smile, trying not to flinch in remembrance of how broken and beaten Tommen had been after the Dragon Queen had come to Kings Landing. Her little brother had never told her what he had been subjected to during that time, and she had never asked. 

She stares hard into the pool of water in front of her, jaw working to keep the tears from spilling over. Robb just sighs, and a few moments later his cloak settling around her shoulders. 

“I’m sorry, for the way that I acted towards you when we first crossed paths at my camp. It was wrong of me to be so cold toward you, and I am truly ashamed.” Robb’s hands are gentle as he tucks his cloak in around her shoulders, the fur at the collar tickling her cheek. 

“I forgive you.” She replies after a moment. “I know that this situation is not one that we anticipated finding ourselves in, but I want to make the best of it, if we can.”

She can feel the side of his body pressing into hers, warm despite the chill in the air. 

“Why did you lie about Cerwyn?” Robb asks suddenly, neatly steering away from their slightly heavier topic of conversation.

She can’t help but shrug against the cold, pulling Robb’s cloak more tightly around herself. 

“It would have meant more trouble for me, in the end. A little manipulative perhaps, but if I can play on his honour then he’ll consider himself indebted to me. A favour for a favour, we call it in the South.”

Robb just blinks at her in surprise, perhaps shocked that she is being so open about what had transpired.

“Clever, but you’re assuming that men like Cerwyn have honour, that you know how he thinks.”

She just smiles faintly at her betrothed. 

“All men are the same Your Grace, whether he be a King or a foot soldier. Of course I know how he thinks. It’s written plain across his face for everyone to see.” 

Robb says nothing in reply, instead stands, offering her his arm. She takes it almost automatically, the gesture achingly familiar to her as she curls her hand into the crook of his elbow.

“For what it’s worth, I’ve already spoken to him. Told him that if he ever laid a hand on you again that he’d lose his head. You are to be my Queen, and I will not have my men disrespecting you in such a way.” 

Her breath huffs out in front of her face, turning the air around her to mist as they walk. Robb guides her back up the path towards the castle, their feet crunching across leaves and snow.   

It’s a peaceful moment, and for the first time she feels like she doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone, that she can just be herself. 

Their silence is a companionable one rather than awkward, and she can’t help but smile to herself as they approach the walls of Winterfell. Perhaps her situation would not turn out so bad, if this is truly what Robb is like. Compassionate, intuitive, brave. 

Together they slip through the doors of the castle, and Robb pauses, a gentle hand on her arm.

“Myrcella.” He begins, shifting from one foot to the other, running a hand through auburn curls. “I know we haven’t had the best of starts to our betrothal. What happened to you, us, was unfortunate and beyond our control. I don’t know much about you, but I would like to, if you’d let me.” He takes her hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it. 

And she cannot help but smile. 

“I would like that.” She finally replies. 

Robb’s smile is like the sun. 

“Good.” 

It’s not until much later, that she makes it back to her chamber and collapses into one of the chairs by the fire that she realises that she’s still wearing his cloak. 

It smells like him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Wow okay so much for me saying that I’d try to update this more regularly! I apologise. I’m definitely still around, and very much looking forward to continuing this story. Unfortunately, real life does have a tendency to get in the way of things I love to do, writing included!
> 
> Myrcella continues to face some resistance during her time in the North, but is surprised to find this change in the form of a boy from the South and her betrothed. 
> 
> Sansa of course, is still extremely distrustful of Myrcella considering she knows nothing about our gal.


	5. Chapter 5

Slowly but surely, she begins to adjust to her life at Winterfell. It’s so unlike the heat of Dorne, that seemed to stick to her skin, made it hard to move for long periods of time. It was almost like swimming through soup, and it was days like that where she either spent most of it inside, fanning herself with whatever she could find. In Winterfell, the cold seeped into her bones, making her body ache.

Here, moving around and being active was encouraged, and she did everything that she could to make herself useful. She sat inside mostly, with Sansa and the other ladies, sewing clothes and curtains and banners. It was dull work, but it had to be done. At least there was something that she could thank her mother for, the hours spent with her Septa perfecting her needlework while her brother’s played at swords and pretended to be knights.

Other days she could slip down to the stables and spend time with Abraxas and the other horses. Those were her favourite times, where she was completely alone save for the odd groom or stableboy who only curtsied to her respectfully, a curious look in their eyes as they went about their business. Robb regarded her with something other than disdain as time passed, and for that she was grateful. She never imagined that she would marry for love, that sentiment certainly didn’t change when Daenery’s Targaryen took the throne. But she had hoped that her husband would not hate her, hate her for the family that she had come from, for the name that bore the weight of misdeeds and treachery.

They sat together at dinner in a somewhat peaceful silence all things considered. She was content to people watch, something she had always enjoyed doing as a little girl. Likewise Robb was silent, happy to enjoy his meal, speaking now and again to one of his General’s or banner men who approached his table throughout the evening.

She would take water for him sometimes in the work yard, watch as he smiled gratefully at her, wiping his hand across his forehead before downing the water in one. His fingers would brush against hers as he handed back the skin, and she tried not to read too much into the way he jumped at the contact.

Other days, when sewing got too boring and when nothing at the stables required her attention, she’d hide her golden hair under the hood of a cloak and slip out of the The Great Keep entirely.

It was on one such day, weak sunlight filtering through the blanket of grey clouds above her head, that she was drawn towards the smithy. The constant din had intrigued her, and she’s upon the blacksmith before she can think twice about propriety and what a proper lady would do. As she had very quickly discovered, it was different here, in the North.  She recognises him, she realises quickly, the black hair and broad shoulders familiar to her. He was the boy who had spoken to her at dinner some time ago, and it takes her only moments to recall his name. Gendry.

She watches him as he turns, dunking the red hot sword into a bucket of water to temper the blade. Her movement draws his gaze, and he blinks up at her in shock before ducking forward into a clumsy bow. He’s dressed in dirty clothes, and the somewhat self conscious look on his face tells her that he wasn’t exactly expecting company.

“Forgive me princess, I did not know you were there.” He stumbles over his words as she picks up the skirt of her dress and moves further towards the heat radiating from the bellows.

“Myrcella is fine, please Gendry.” She remarks softly. “I would not use that title around these parts either. Some might call that treason.” She points out as Gendry pales beneath the layer of ash and soot on his face.

“I’m sorry M’lady. I’m still getting used to all of the different titles used up here. Can I offer you a seat? Here…” He trails off, pulling up a dirty stool for her and using one of the rags on the forge to wipe the surface. It doesn’t do much, but she smiles at him before sinking onto the stool.

She stares at him for a long moment, watches him wring the cloth between his hands as he ponders what to do next, what to say to her.

“You look a lot like my father.” She says suddenly, breaking the silence between them as Gendry visibly flinches. She’d never really stopped to think about it before, but the resemblance was striking.

“Ser Jaime?” He asks in confusion as he grasps the sword in the bucket of water and returns it to the forge. She scowls at his question, shaking her head once, hood falling from her head.

“No. My father the king. Robert Baratheon.”

“I never knew my father.” Gendry says abruptly, his tone sharp. This was a sensitive topic for him, even if she had strayed onto it by accident. “Is there a particular reason why you’re here M’lady? I don’t think the King would take too kindly to you being seen alone with another man.”

“I was bored of needlework, and my wandering led me here. Besides, the King is otherwise occupied. He seems to have a great deal of respect for you.”

Gendry lets out a humourless laugh, striking the hammer against the sword a few times, turning it over to inspect his handiwork. “Respect? No M’lady. King Robb knows that I’m handy around a forge, and his last smithy was killed when Theon Greyjoy burnt this place to the ground. That and I told him that his sister was alive. Arya.” Gendry adds upon seeing her confused expression.

“Arya Stark? I haven’t seen her for what seems like an age. When did you see her last? Did she look well?”

“Well enough. She was a constant thorn in my side. We travelled together for some time. They were going to take her North into Stark territory, get her back to her family. We got waylaid, hunted by Gold Cloaks. We parted ways and I’ve not seen her since. I don’t even know if she’s still alive.” Gendry tells the story with an air of detachment, but one look at him and Myrcella knows that he’s more affected by this than he’s letting on.

“From what I knew of her when she was in Kings Landing, she was tough, made of steel. If anyone can survive a war torn Westeros, it’s Arya Stark.

A horn sounds from somewhere in the Keep and Gendry stiffens, glancing towards the source of the sound.

“You should go.” He directs towards her. “Come on, I’ll escort you.” He decides after a moment, dropping the sword that he’d previously picked up, swinging a ragged cape around his shoulders as he falls into step with her.

The progress towards the yard is slow as they weave around dozens of men.

“Open the gate!” One yells from the wall above them, the call repeated around the yard until the men in charge of the gate begin to pull the heavy doors open.

A lone horse enters, steered by a man with short hair and a beard. It takes a moment for her to realise that there’s someone riding pillion, grimy arms wrapped tightly around the man’s waist. The man draws the horse to a halt, dismounting before helping the younger boy behind him slide off the horse’s back. The man gazes around the yard for a moment, eyes falling on the man closest to him.

“You.” The man begins, pointing at the other. “I seek an audience with The King in The North.”

The Northern man throws his head back and laughs.

“Get in line. The King in the North is otherwise indisposed.”

At this Myrcella sweeps her gaze around the yard, wondering at Robb’s absence. She could not see a familiar shock of auburn hair either, deducing that Sansa was tucked away inside the castle, away from the cold.

She steps forward before the two men can get into an argument, and almost immediately every pair of eyes in the yard land on her, Gendry stiffening beside her at the sudden attention.

“My name is Myrcella Baratheon, and I am betrothed to Robb Stark, King in the North.” She begins easily enough, eyes glancing over to the man and the boy. “State your business here.”

The man offers her a deep bow as he spots her golden hair, still hanging loose around her shoulders.

“My Lady. My name is Davos Seaworth, once Hand of the King to Stannis Baratheon, your Uncle. I was tasked by Robert Manderly to fetch Rickon Stark from the island of Skagos and bring him back here to Winterfell to be with his family.”

“Rickon Stark?” She enquires faintly, peering around Davos to see the boy. “This is Rickon Stark?”

“Upon my honour, I vow that this is Rickon Stark.” Davos replies, sincerity in his tone.

She’s heard of Davos Seaworth, and while it would be easy enough to blindly trust him, there are only two people currently in Winterfell that hold any hope of positively identifying the boy in front of her, if he is in fact Rickon Stark. She turns to one of the men standing near her, beckoning him to her with a crook of her finger.

“Fetch the King immediately, and his sister the Lady Sansa. As a matter of urgency.” She impresses upon him as the man nods to her before taking off at a run towards the castle.

 She turns to Gendry.

“Your cloak, please. I will see to it that a new one is fashioned for you.” She promises Gendry, who simply sighs and unclasps the fabric before handing it to her.

Carefully, she steps towards Davos and Rickon.

Davos watches her come warily, but seems to sense her good intentions and steps aside. She gets her first look at Rickon Stark since she’d seen him last, what seems like a lifetime ago now. He’d only been young then, practically a baby.

“Rickon. My name is Myrcella Baratheon. You probably don’t remember me, but we met some time ago when my father came to visit yours.” Rickon looks untamed, a little wild as his wide eyes dart to meet hers.

“You’re the princess, aren’t you?” He asks, his voice hoarse from years of disuse. She holds the cloak out to him, and Rickon bends down a little, allowing her to sweep it around his shoulders.

His lips are blue from the cold, and he’s shivering a little.

“Not anymore.” She tells Rickon with a wry smile as Rickon’s gaze leaves her, settling somewhere over her left shoulder.

Still in her crouch she twists, watching as Robb and Sansa skid to a halt some distance away from them. Sansa looks on the verge of tears as she recognises her little brother, Robb looking like he’s seen a ghost.

“Rickon? Do you remember me?” Robb asks, stepping towards his little brother carefully. Rickon hesitates, glancing up at Davos before nodding, biting his quivering lip.

“Go.” She whispers to Rickon as he glances at her once before dashing towards his brother and sister.

The three Starks collide as Rickon is folded into Robb and Sansa’s arms, and she takes a step back, tears welling up in her own eyes as she plays witness to the family reunion. Her heart aches, missing her own brother with every fibre of her being. As if guessing the direction of her thoughts, Robb’s eyes meet hers, gaze sympathetic as he offers her a tired smile.

Sansa already has her arm around Rickon’s shoulder, guiding the younger boy back towards the castle. Robb falls into step behind them, and soon enough the rest of the men in the yard return to their previous activities. It takes her a moment to realise that Davos Seaworth is still standing next to her, mostly forgotten amidst the excitement of Rickon Stark returning to his ancestral home, reunited once more with his family. The war had been hard on everyone, but the Starks had weathered their losses with a quiet strength.

“I’m sorry.” She apologises to the older man, who looks at her in surprise. “You must be weary from your travels and nobody has offered you lodging.”

Davos waves her away, pulling his cloak tighter around himself to ward off the chill in the air.

“I was not expecting lodging m’lady. I am content to find my own space to sleep for the night.” Davos replies a little gruffly, perhaps not used to being offered such hospitality after so long on the road.

“That won’t do.” She states mildly, placing a gentle hand on Davos’ arm and steering him towards the castle. “I insist that you lodge in the Castle. I’ll have a room made ready for you and a hot bath drawn. The nights are cold here, and I’ll not have you freezing. I am sure the King would like to speak to you as well after he has spent time with his family.”

Davos sighs, but is content to be pulled along by her.

“I admit m’lady a comfortable featherbed is not a luxury I have experienced for some time. If you have room I would gladly take you up on your offer.”

The front door of the castle lies open, and she leads Davos into the dimly lit hall. She manages to catch a passing servant, and the instructions are given for Davos to be given one of the vacant chambers they’d been reserving for guests and visiting dignitaries.

Davos follows the servant up the stairs, mouth open wide as he takes in the vastness of Winterfell.

Robb steps out into the hall in the next moment, crossing the space to come and join her.

“I see you’ve taken care of our guest.” Robb notes with something akin to pride in his tone. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to greet him myself. Thank you.”

“I am sure Ser Davos will forgive you, given the circumstances.” She replies lightly as Robb leans up against the wall next to her. “How is Rickon?”

“Far better than I expected.” Robb admits with surprise. “He’s quiet, which is understandable, but he seems healthy and hale despite everything. Sansa is fussing over him as we speak.”

Myrcella allows herself to smile, despite her complicated feelings about her sister to be.

Robb scrubs a hand through his auburn curls as he yawns.

“I noticed you were talking to Gendry earlier, down at the forge. Are the two of you acquainted?” Robb asks suddenly.

“Only recently. If you recall, I sat with him at dinner one time. He’s from the South as well. I’ll need a new cloak for him actually, I gave his to Rickon.”

“Of course.” Robb replies immediately, face twisting unpleasantly at the memory of his very public snub to her, that first night in Winterfell. “Talk to the castellan tomorrow and he’ll arrange for one.”

She inclines her head in acknowledgement as she pushes off from the wall.

“I’ll take dinner in my chambers tonight.” She tells Robb. “I’m guessing that you’ll want to dine with your brother and sister, make up for lost time.”

“You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like. They’ll be your family soon enough.” Robb replies somewhat hesitantly.

She is perceptive enough to know that he wants nothing more than to be alone with his family this evening, and simply gives him a knowing smile.

“I would not impose. Especially not tonight.”

“Myrcella?” Robb calls softly as her footsteps take her away from him. She pauses, skirts in her hand as she looks at him over her shoulder.

“Thank you.”

* * *

 

There’s a fire flickering in The Great Hall, and she stops by the double doors, poking her head around the opening between the two, held slightly ajar.

She had ended up taking her meal with Davos Seaworth, the older man regaling her with the story of how he had fetched Rickon from Skagos and how long it had taken to bring him back.

Rickon had been completely wild when Davos had come across him, the younger boy barely able to string two words together.  Davos had taken it upon himself to teach the boy his letters, ensuring he was learned enough to return to his brother and sister without much cause for alarm.

Rickon would still need lessons, which would prove to be difficult without a maester at the castle.

There’s a chair drawn up in front of the fire, and she just knows that it’s Robb, firelight glinting off auburn hair.

“It’s late.” She announces her presence in a clear voice as Robb starts in the chair, twisting around to face her. His expression softens when he sees that it’s her, and she takes that opportunity to cross the room and join him, hovering near the second chair.

“May I?” She asks, before Robb is giving her a nod.

She sighs as the warmth from the fire hits her, and she holds out her cold hands towards the flames.

“Here, let me pour you some wine.” Robb says after a moment, reaching for the skin and goblet on the table. “You don’t mind sharing?” He asks as he passes her the cup.

She takes a sip, savouring the tart taste as it warms her from the inside out. It takes her another second to realise that Robb is drinking _wine_.

“I’m not a drunk.” Robb says out loud as she hands him back the cup. “It’s been some time since I’ve had a drink.”

“I know.” She replies softly. “Are you okay?”

She glances towards him, noticing that he’s as dressed down as she’s ever seen him, in a loose white shirt, cloak draped around his shoulders, breeches still tucked into his boots.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Robb grunts, lifting the cup to his lips. “Haven’t been able to for a while.”

That would explain the darkness under his eyes, the wearied set to his shoulders as he insists on taking on more and more work.

“I can’t help but feel like we’re just waiting for something else to happen. Surely the war can’t be over? Surely it can’t be this easy? I’ve spent half of my life at war.” Robb remarks, voice hoarse.

She taps her fingers against the arm of her chair, not looking at Robb, because sometimes she feels exactly the same way, like Westeros is holding it’s breath, waiting for the next cataclysmic event to occur.

“You should ask your brother to come and visit.” Robb says suddenly, placing the goblet carefully on the table. “I think it would make you happy.”

She pauses for a moment, not sure how to reply to that.

“I saw the way you looked at us in the yard, realised that you might be missing your family. If it would make you happy, you have my leave to write to Jon and ask that Tommen be allowed to come and stay for some time.”

She’s helpless to stop the smile from gracing her features.

“Thank you Robb. That would make me very happy.” She tells him truthfully, watches as he nods to himself. “I’ll send a raven tomorrow.”

Robb nods, getting to his feet and extinguishing the fire with a bucket of water placed on the hearth. He turns, holding out a hand for her.

“Come. I’ll escort you to your chambers. It’s getting late. I believe my sister wants to speak to you tomorrow about your wedding gown.”

She stares up at him hesitantly, still perched on the chair in front of the now extinguished fireplace. Slowly she reaches out to take his hand, lets him pull her to her feet.

He looks faintly amused at the expression on her face.

“While I am of the same mind as you are to extend our betrothal as much as possible so we may get to know each other better, unfortunately I’m getting pressure from the South.”

“The Dragon Queen?” She asks hoarsely, tongue darting out to wet her lips as Robb nods, steering her out of the Great Hall, pulling the heavy door shut behind him.

“Yes. The stipulation of the North, seceding from the rest of Westeros was that I take you as my wife. I had a letter the other day, asking why that hadn’t happened. Unfortunately the explanation that the rebuilding of Winterfell is taking longer than expected was not acceptable.” Robb acknowledges this with a bitter smile.

“I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any distress. I know a wedding is probably the last thing on your mind.” She answers honestly, sees his look of surprise. “Sometimes, there are more important things.” She clarifies, watches as his look changes to one of respect.

“Thank you. For understanding. For not resenting me. I imagine you must feel like you’re in a rather strange position.”

It was not normal for a betrothed high born lady to stay with her husband to be. It wasn’t done in The South, and in her father’s court it would have been looked on as nothing short of scandalous. But times have changed, and this was her life now.

“Strange yes. Resent you? Never.” She pauses at the entrance to her chamber, taking a step towards the door. She weighs up her next words, unsure if it’s even her place to say it.

“You should make sure you spend plenty of time with Rickon. I imagine he looked up to you when he was younger. You may find him much changed, but I think his affection for you remains. Don’t take it for granted.” Robb blinks at her, as if this was the last thing he was expecting her to say. Then his lips curl into a smile.

“I plan on it. Write to your brother Myrcella. After reading about him in Jon’s letters, I”m looking forward to meeting him. Especially if he’s anything like you are.”

And with those words, he sketches her a deep bow, before turning on his heel and disappearing into the darkness of the corridor.

She doesn’t wait til the morn, putting quill to parchment as soon as she’s settled at the desk in her chamber. With the candle flickering beside her, golden curls bent over the desk, she begins to write. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: And here we have Chapter 5! Apologies for the long wait my lovelies, I’ve been sitting on this one for awhile and wanted to make it perfect. I loved writing the Stark reunion, trying to imagine how Myrcella must feel seeing the Starks together and having Tommen so far away in the South. The conversation with Gendry about Arya was put in for a reason. Robb begins to understand Myrcella a little more, discovers what makes her tick. I’m enjoying writing the slow burn between them. We’ll see Jon Snow and possibly Tommen in the next chapter or so, and a secret will be revealed about Sansa


	6. Chapter 6

She has a letter clutched in her hand, the other resting on the ramparts as she stares over the frozen landscape beyond the Walls of Winterfell. Winter had arrived with a vengeance, and even Robb had been heard saying that it was the coldest that he’d felt in years. He’d immediately ordered the men to do double shifts in the yard, not shirking his responsibilities and choosing instead to join them.

Bit by bit, Winterfell began to look anew again. It would never be restored to it’s former glory, not with the current deficit of materials, but it was beginning to look like a place that she could call her home, one day. She hoped, that one day, the people that would become her family would accept her, look past her name and the deeds of her mother and father and grandfather.

Almost unbidden, her gloved hand clenches into a fist, parchment crackling beneath the force of her grip.

Rickon had settled back into life at Winterfell, and sometimes it was almost as if he had never left.

She caught glimpses of the boy that he used to be every now and then, that playful spark that lit up his eyes whenever Robb jested with him, ruffled his hair playfully.

Other times he sunk into a deep silence, lost in thought, eyes dark with memories of whatever had happened to him while he’d been away from Winterfell. Nothing could rouse Rickon from the grips of his mind during those times, and they’d all learnt to steer clear of him for a few hours until he’d shaken himself from his almost trance like state.

She knew that Davos had discussed with Robb what state Rickon had been in when the man had found him on Skagos Island, but even Davos’ knowledge on what Rickon may have gone through while he was there was limited. Rickon’s companion, Osha, and the only other person that had made it to Skagos with Rickon, had died on the road to Winterfell, and she had remained tight lipped until the very end.

It would seem that the mysteries of Skagos would remain just that. A mystery.

Footsteps on the battlements draw her gaze to Robb, who looks lost in thought as he strides along, one gloved hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his features drawn into a frown as he watches where he steps.

He’s almost upon her when he realises that he’s not alone, and the full body flinch that he does belies the alarm he feels upon being caught off his guard.

“Myrcella.” He breathes out, blue eyes piercing as he pauses next to her for a moment.

She watches as his eyes glance down to the letter that she holds in her gloved hand, lips quirking into a ghost of a smile before his gaze returns to her.

“From your brother?” He guesses, as she glances down once more at the seal of House Targaryen.

“I don’t know.” She admits out loud to him. She’s terrified that it’s from Daenerys, terrified of what it might say. That maybe the Dragon Queen has changed her mind, that Myrcella and her brother are too much of a threat to her reign, that they’ll be put to death in the most painful ways imaginable.

Robb places a gentle hand on her arm. She feels the heat of his palm, even through the thick leather of his gloves, and fights to keep the blush from her cheeks.

She’s not blind or deaf or dumb. She knew that her betrothed was an attractive man, not to mention an extremely eligible match. Had she still retained the status that comes with being a Lannister, it would have been a good match for her.

“She will keep her word. I will see to it personally.” Robb vows, and she can’t help but draw back from him a little, surprised at the conviction that she hears in his tone.

She takes another breath, using her thumb to break the wax seal as she folds open the thick pieces of parchment. She can’t help but let out a soft sigh as she sees the familiar scrawl of Tommen’s boyish handwriting, obviously having sealed the letter with the permission of his guardian, Jon Targaryen.

_Dearest Myrcella,_

_Thank you so much for your letter, and that which you wrote to Jon._

_Of course, I would love to come and visit should the King permit it._

_Storms End is not what I expected sister, and neither is Jon._

_He is a serious man, stoic and a little cold at times,_

_but he has been nothing but kind towards me, and has never mistreated me._

_He treats me as one man does another, as an honoured guest._

_He has already taught me so much about the kingdoms that we live in,_

_about swordplay and war and many other subjects._

_He’s also allowed me access to the library at Storms End._

_It’s incredible Myrcella, I wish that I could draw it for you so you could see for yourself._

_I miss you more than words can say, but please don’t worry about me._

_I am being treated better than I ever hoped I would be after what happened in Kings Landing._

_Even those memories are starting to fade, something for which I am forever grateful._

_I hope you are well sister, and that you are adjusting to life in the North._

_I’m sorry that we have both found ourselves in these situations,_

_but if I know you as well as I think I do, I know that you will try and make the best of it._

_Yours, Tommen_

“Glad tidings I hope?” Robb’s gentle tone shocks her out of her thoughts, and she turns to him with a surprised gaze.

“A letter from my brother.” She replies with a soft smile as Robb’s gaze turns to one of understanding.

“He is doing well under Jon’s care. He said that he would love to visit should you permit it.”

“Jon is already making all the necessary arrangements. He’s going to send a small party of his most trusted men to ride ahead while he and Tommen come on dragon back.”

“On dragon back?” She replies a little shrilly as Robb chuckles.

She’d never had the pleasure of meeting the dragons of Daenerys and Jon Targaryen, and had very little desire to do so as long as she still held breath in her body.

She had seen the destruction that they had wrought over Kings Landing, knew how terrifying the creatures could be. The thought of her little brother, riding one of the creatures was incomprehensible to her. It terrified her.

She twists away from Robb, hand held over her mouth in horror. Robb’s hand is gentle on her wrist as he tugs her gently towards him, one hand cradling her face as he pulls her into his chest.

“I’m sorry for laughing. I forgot…” He trails off, not needing to complete the sentence, to say what he was thinking out loud.

She breathes out against the leather of his jerkin, a deep, shuddering breath as he gently strokes her hair. It’s not a gesture she ever thought he would make, least of all towards her.

“Jon would not propose such an idea if there was danger involved.” Robb murmurs soothingly into the air between them. “My cousin is a good man. He would protect Tommen with his life.”

“I know.” She replies reluctantly, squeezing his arms gently. “I trust you.” She admits out loud, finally saying what she’s been meaning to tell him now for some time. Because she did trust him.

He has shown her more kindness in these past few weeks than she’s received in her entire life, and she has become to respect Robb, both as a King and as her betrothed. Robb stiffens beneath her hands, as if he’s surprised by her admission.

“I’m glad.” He remarks formally, clumsily as he lets his hand fall from her face.

Just like that the moment between them is broken, Robb stepping back as she brushes her hands against the front of her black gown a little awkwardly.

“I’m glad that I found you actually.” Robb continues, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “Daenerys has sent me a list of houses that we must invite to our wedding. While I’m familiar with most of the Southern houses, there are a few that I am not familiar with. I thought perhaps you might be able to have a look at the list for me, tell me a bit more about them?”

She glances at him in surprise as he offers her his arm. She steps forward, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, wondering why he was asking her such a thing when he no doubt had countless books in the great library of Winterfell that could fill the gaps in his knowledge.

She realises in an instant what he’s doing, and can’t help but let the smile creep across her face as Robb picks a path for them down the stone staircase, feet finally coming back down to Earth.

He is putting his trust in her, in her knowledge of the South. But he’s also trusting her to advise him, to be his equal.

And that means more to her than any fine gown or jewel ever could.

* * *

 

They have dinner together in his Solar, dining by candlelight as she holds the piece of parchment Robb had pushed towards her up to her eyes.

The names of the families are familiar to her, schooled into her by her Septa back in Kings Landing.

She didn’t get quite the same education as her brothers would have received, but she was still expected to know Southern families great and small. It’s a long list.

“Does Daenerys realise that we barely have enough food to feed ourselves, let alone her court and these families?” She asks mildly as Robb freezes mid bite, blue eyes widening in surprise.

“I’m not a simpleton.” She tells him honestly. “I know the North is essentially a frozen wasteland come Winter, and you’ve not had many farmers looking after the land with the War going on down South. How bad is it?”

“It’s not good, but it’s not dire. We’ll have enough to see us through the next few moons, but after that…” Robb trails off, taking a sip from his goblet, pushing the food around his plate. “We might have to ration.”

“Of course.” She replies mildly, eyes dropping back to the parchment.

“You… you don’t mind that?” Robb asks warily. “I’m sure you’ve never had to go hungry in your life. I’m sorry that I can’t provide more for you.”

She places the piece of parchment down on the table, eyes meeting his.

“And neither have you, I’m sure. But it’s the most logical thing to do, and like with all things we shall endure it. Together.” She adds, as Robb tilts his head towards her respectfully.

“So what do you think?” Robb gestures toward the parchment with a dismissive air, although his eyes said differently.

“Do you have a quill?” She asks as Robb stands, heading to his desk and returning with an ink pot and a fine, feathered quill. He hands it to her, presence warm at her shoulder as she dips the quill into the pot and scratches out a few family names.

The list that remains is decidedly smaller, and decidedly easier to accommodate in the Great Keep of Winterfell for their upcoming wedding.

“Send this list back to Daenerys. Explain our situation, and tell her that the families on this list are the ones who need to witness our union. We don’t have to invite everyone in the Six Kingdoms now, do we?” She asks with an arched eyebrow as Robb chuckles. 

The press of his lips against her brow is a shock, and she jumps a little at the contact.

“Thankyou Myrcella.” He remarks sincerely, a boyish grin creeping across his face. “Will you come and sit by the fire? I’m not quite ready to retire.”

The two servants who were standing against the wall come forward to clear the plates and goblets scattered across the surface, and she stands, gathering her skirts in one hand as she takes Robb’s outstretched one with the other.

Grey Wind is already sitting in prime position in front of the fire, seemingly unaffected by the heat coming from the flames despite his heavy coat.

He lifts his head, tail swishing once, twice at the presence of Robb before he twists his head to her.

She clucks her tongue at him, a little apprehensive about the huge creature looking every part a faithful lap dog, knowing that he could turn and end her before she even had time to react.

“He won’t hurt you.” Robb states confidently, gesturing for her to sit in one of the heavy chairs. “In fact, I rather think he likes you. He has good taste.” 

Tentatively as Robb settles into the other chair, she leans down and lets her hand run over Grey Wind’s back.

The Direwolf twitches for a moment but allows her to continue stroking him, resting his head against the stone floor once more with a content sort of snuffle. She laughs softly to herself, equal parts amazed and still slightly terrified at the sheer, overwhelming presence of the Direwolf.

“How are you getting along with my family?” Robb’s voice is soft, gentle, not wishing to disturb Grey Wind anymore than she wants to.

“I’ve not had a lot to do with Rickon. He tends to keep to himself a lot. I don’t blame him, he’s been through a great deal.”

“And Sansa?” Robb continues his gentle line of questioning, and she pulls her cloak more securely around her shoulders as she continues to stare into the dancing flames.

“Your sister and I… I fear there is a great deal of hurt between us. She resents me for the way Joffrey treated her, and I can scarcely lay blame at her feet for that.”

“You are not your brother Myrcella. Joffrey was a monster.”

“And I am a Lannister. And as long as I carry the name and as long as I remain here, I will always remind her of what she endured during her time in Kings Landing. Tommen and I will always be mistrusted wherever we go, simply because of the family name that we both carry.”

“I’m sorry.” Robb says quietly.

“I’m sorry for what both you and my sister had to endure. But I hope, that we can build a better future for all of us.”

She’s helpless to stop the smile from creeping across her face.

“I’d like that.”

* * *

 

There is no space inside of Winterfell’s walls to receive a dragon, so she, Robb, and a few of his men ride outside of the gates to where the fields run flat towards the horizon.

Snow crunches beneath the hooves of Abraxas, and she leans over, rubbing a hand over his neck in sympathy.

Robb sits tall on his stallion, a black steed that looks positively monstrous.

It’s clearly a war horse, accustomed to battle and all of the horrors that come with it.

His cloak flows behind him, grey and black twining together as he leads the party on.

He turns to look back at her, blue eyes bright with excitement at the thought of seeing his cousin after so long, smile stretching across his face.

The Greatjon, riding beside her, notes this with a chuckle.

“It would seem that your considerable charm has thawed out our Winter King my lady.” He remarks gruffly with another laugh.

They’re riding close enough to each other that she can lean over and elbow him, and she takes the opportunity to do so.

“Things between us are better than they were.” She admits out loud, breath turning to mist in front of her, cold prickling at her cheeks, turning them a rosy red.

“I’m glad.” Greatjon replies with a curt nod. “It would seem that he’s finally come to his senses.”

Robb makes a sharp motion, and the party halts within moments.

“Myrcella.” Robb motions for her to join him, and with a clicking of her tongue she nudges Abraxas through the column of men, who respectfully move aside to make room for her.

Robb takes her hand in his, pointing up to a dark speck against the sky.

“There.” He declares as she squeezes his hand tightly.

Robb glances around at all of the horses, perhaps realising the grave error that he’d made.

He dismounts in the next moment, turning to help her down from Abraxas, hands warm as he catches her around the waist with a smile.

“Take the men and the horses back, almost to the walls. We don’t want them to startle and bolt. Dragons are a lot bigger and more intimidating than the horses.”

The Greatjon nods, barking out some orders as the column wheels, taking her and Robb’s mounts with them.

“Okay?” Robb asks quietly, tucking her hand into his arm comfortingly.

“Terrified.” She admits out loud as she watches the large blot against the skyline grow larger and larger, materialising into the shimmering scales and spiked tail that she well remembers from the day of destruction in Kings Landing.

“I’m right here.” Robb murmurs reassuringly, and despite the fact that Robb could do nothing to defend her against a dragon, the words, the gesture itself, is comforting. 

The ground vibrates beneath her feet as the great dragon lands on all fours, stretching out it’s neck and letting out a huff of flame at the exertion. The two figures on it’s back lean down, fiddling with straps and buckles as they free themselves from the saddle.

Tommen is the first to hit the ground, and he abandons all propriety in favour of running towards her, long legs eating up the distance between them easily.

She drops Robb’s arm, meeting him halfway as Tommen sweeps her up into his arms.

He’s grown, she realises very quickly, he’s taller than her and he’s filled out, his shoulders and chest broader.

He’s no longer the round little boy that he was when he wore a crown in Kings Landing. He’s halfway towards being a man, and she can’t believe that she’s missed it.

“You’re so tall!” she exclaims as Tommen finally sets her down, pulling her into a hug. “Look at you!”

“It’s good to see you sister.” Tommen replies softly as she pulls him down into another tight hug. “You look well.”

She takes Tommen’s hands in hers, looking over her shoulder to where Robb and Jon are greeting each other happily, Jon ruffling Robb’s hair playfully before the tboth of them are slapping each other on the back.

There’s a wide grin splitting Jon Targaryen’s cheeks as he turns his gaze towards the walls of Winterfell.

“I fear we’ve been very rude.” She remarks lightly, one hand covering her mouth. “Come. Let me introduce you to Robb.”

She pulls Tommen towards Robb and Jon, who are both regarding them silently.

“Robb, this is my brother Tommen of House Lannister.” She does the introduction hesitantly as Robb stares at Tommen for a long moment, Tommen stepping forward and sinking to his knee in front of her betrothed.

“Your Grace.” Tommen begins respectfully. “Thank you for allowing me to come and visit my sister. I am in your debt.”

Robb looks taken aback by the obvious deference that Tommen has displayed, and quickly gestures for him to rise.

“We are to be family soon Tommen. Please call me Robb. And of course, you are always welcome at Winterfell whenever you may want to visit. Now tell me, what have you been studying at Storms End? Myrcella tells me that you have a great thirst for knowledge.”

Tommen falls into step beside Robb as he leads the way towards the Gates of Winterfell, leaving her alone with Jon Targaryen.

She turns to face the Prince, sweeping him a respectful curtsey, even as Jon sinks into a low bow.

They share a laugh before Jon offers her his arm.

“Well met Lady Myrcella. It’s good to see you again.” She’s always been struck by the kindness of the Targaryen Prince.

He was the first that showed any towards her in Kings Landing, and she will always be grateful for it, as long as she lives.

“How is he?” She asks after a few moments, turning her gaze to where Robb and Tommen are carrying on a rather animated conversation, blonde and auburn heads bent close together.

“He’s good. Content. Misses you a great deal.” Jon replies easily as their boots pick out a path in the snow. “I’m sorry that we couldn’t arrange to have him visit sooner. My aunt is taking up much of my time.”

Jon’s face twists at the mention of the Queen, something that she notes with interest before he turns that dark gaze upon her.

“And you? How are you faring at Winterfell?”

She glances away from Jon, her eyes landing once more on Robb, watching as he throws his head back in laughter at a jest that Tommen had made.

It’s a sound that brings a smile to her lips, and she doesn’t miss the gentle nudge that Jon gives her either.

“It’s been better. Your brother is a very good man. Kind, as you said to me all those months ago.” She finally replies.

Jon smiles to himself.

“I understand it may be an adjustment, and there are members of my family who may be less than welcoming towards you. But it is my wish, as I know it is Robb’s, that you are able to call this place your home after everything that has happened. He writes of you often.” Jon adds, almost as an afterthought, like that piece of information alone is no big deal.

“I owe you thanks then, for your kindness.” She tilts her head towards him as they begin the gentle climb up to Winterfell, but it’s Jon that stops her with a gentle hand on her arm.

“You owe me nothing Myrcella. All I want is for you and for Tommen to be happy.”

Again, she can’t help but be struck by the kindness of the Targaryen Prince, heir to the Iron Throne.

“How long are you staying?” She asks lightly as they pass beneath the gates of Winterfell, Jon’s eyes sweeping longingly around the courtyard as he drinks in the familiar site of his home.

She hadn’t been to Storms End herself, but she knew that it would be worlds away from Winterfell, completely different.

“A little after the wedding, and then Tommen and I must return South. Does that suit you my lady?”

She smiles at Jon, at the hustle and bustle of Winterfell around them.

“Yes, that suits just fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still here, still posting! I've really enjoyed diving back into this world and writing the development between Robb and Myrcella. We'll see more of the relationship between Robb and Jon next chapter, Myrcella will find out something about Sansa, and Robb and Myrcella will share a moment. 
> 
> Hope that you all enjoyed!


	7. Chapter 7

It’s the clanging of swords that pulls her from her deep sleep the next morning, and for a moment she clutches the furs tightly to her chest, wondering if they’re going to be attacked. 

Maybe the war had started up again, maybe it had come to Winterfell. 

But it’s the logical part of her mind that intercedes a few moments later, and when she strains to hear beyond the clashing of swords she hears cheering and laughter to accompany it. 

Someone sparring, perhaps.

Calling for her maid, she dresses in a simple wooden grey gown, swinging her cloak of dark blue that Jon had given her in Kings Landing around her shoulders. She braids her hair with numb fingers, forgoing the intricate hairstyles favoured by the Southern Courts even as she feels the cold seeping into her warm chamber from outside.

Her boots click against the stone floors as she descends through the castle, winding towards the training yard to see what the disturbance was. She hoped that Tommen wasn’t stupid enough to have a turn in the ring. He would be hopelessly outclassed even by the squires.

Tommen waves to her when she steps into the yard, perched on top of the fence watching the bout before him. Flurries of snow fall softly, melting into his golden hair.

Robb and Jon are facing off against one another, both dressed in breeches and loose white shirts, sweat shining on their brows. Based off their appearances, it would seem that they’d been sparring for quite some time, and had chosen to forgo their heavy outer layers if the tunics and jerkins draped over the fence were anything to go by.

Jon has his hair pulled back into a bun at the back of his neck, a deadly looking sword shining in his hand. Her eyes recognise the intricate rippling of steel, remembers Joffrey’s sword that had been reforged from Ned Stark’s. Valyrian steel. 

She’d heard stories about that sword, and it’s with a thrill of horror that she realises that Robb is using live steel as well, his sword slightly less grand than Jon’s but no less dangerous. Bloody fools. 

  
Tommen helps her climb the railing, and she wraps her gloved hands tightly around the top post, gaze returning to the two men before her. 

“They’ve been at it for some time. Quite an even match.” Tommen points out to her as her eyes land on Robb. 

He looks confident, at home on the battlefield, even if it only is in peace time and against his cousin. His sword looks like an extension of his arm, and he blocks some of Jon’s furious blows fluidly, easily, like it requires none of his effort at all. 

This is the commander, the man who beat her father at the Whispering Wood, who held him hostage and taunted the rest of her family with the threat of his impending death. Despite everything, she can’t hold it against him. 

  
She barely knew her real father, in the end, even though she loved the man who she believed to be her Uncle for most of her life. He died bravely, a single stroke of the sword ending the legend that was Jaime Lannister. 

Jon murmurs something to Robb, who laughs, eyes shining with mirth as the two circle each other as hawks do their prey. It’s thrilling to watch the two of them come together violently, swords whistling through the air as they meet with a clang. It is a skilled dance between two equal opponents. 

“I wish I was that good.” Tommen sighs somewhat wistfully, hands propped against his chin. “Jon’s been teaching me a little bit every now and then, but the two of them have been learning this since they were practically children.”

She didn’t particularly like the idea of Tommen learning sword play, even if she understood the necessity for it in these times. She had a feeling that it was a skill you only acquired after many years of practice and dedication. 

“Hold!” Robb calls suddenly. Jon snaps to attention almost immediately, sheathing his sword as Robb strides across the soft ground towards herself and Tommen. 

“Good morning Myrcella.” Robb greets her warmly, hauling himself up the railing so that they’re at eye level. “I’m sorry if we’ve disturbed you in any way.” 

He looks younger in this light, his face light, open, happy. Having his cousin around has done wonders for him it would seem, and she could scarcely begrudge him this. 

“You’ll be careful won’t you?” She finally replies with a sigh, reaching out to sweep some of Robb’s auburn hair from his forehead. 

The tenderness of the gesture surprises them both, Robb raising an eyebrow as she snatches her hand away as if she’d been burned, two high spots of colours blooming on her cheek. 

Robb bends forward, reaching down towards her knees where wild roses tangle at her feet. They’re a stunning blue, and Robb takes care as he plucks one, sweeping her hair to the side and tucking it behind her ear. 

The sweet, fragrant scent tickles at her nose, and she touches the flower gently as she smiles at Robb. 

“Of course.” He promises before turning his gaze on Tommen. 

“Care to have a bout later Tommen?” Robb asks casually. “I hear you’ve been having lessons with Jon.” 

Tommen’s eyes widen imperceptibly, and it doesn’t take a genius to know that he’s scared silly of Robb and his ability with a sword, having watched he and Jon go at it for most of the morning. 

“It’s okay lad. We’ll use tourney swords to practice. Wouldn’t want to give your sister too much cause for worry.” He gives her a quick wink as she shoots him a grateful smile, and Tommen lets out the breath he’d been holding. 

In one neat manoeuvre he’s allowed Tommen to save face, perhaps aware that his abilities with a sword are not what they should be for a boy his age and standing. 

“Come on Stark, I don’t have all day.” Jon calls. “Stop flirting and get over here.”

Robb jumps down from the railing, sweeping Jon a mocking bow that wouldn’t be out of place in Kings Landing down South.

“Forgive me, my prince.” Robb replies, all insolence and teasing. There’s a twist of a smile on his lips, and Jon Targaryen just shakes his head, drawing his sword and forcing Robb to do the same.

She and Tommen watch for some time, Robb and Jon’s shirts beginning to stick to their body with each new exertion their bout brings. 

It’s movement across the opposite side of the yard and a flash of auburn that draws her gaze, and she’s somewhat surprised to see Sansa Stark dressed in grey, watching the bout before her with an impassive expression, arms crossed over her chest. 

It’s easy enough to see what draws her gaze. Because it isn’t her brother, or concern for him, as perhaps it should be. 

It’s Jon Targaryen, tall and lean, and dark, that is the subject of Sansa’s steady stare. The look in her eyes is intense, like she would love nothing more than to take him apart piece by piece, devour him. 

If Jon notices the intensity of his cousin’s gaze, he doesn’t show it outwardly. The occasional glance belies his knowledge of Sansa’s presence however, even if Robb doesn’t quite catch on. 

But she has, and although she’s not going to make assumptions, just like that another piece of the puzzle clicks into place for her.

What other secrets was this family hiding?

* * *

The Glass Gardens used to be one of Winterfell’s most stunning features. Essentially a greenhouse designed to house some more of the fragile plant life that couldn’t quite cope with the cold winters of the North, it had the unique feature of being heated by the hot springs that seemed to run below Winterfell.

 

As such, it was still one of the warmest parts of the Keep, despite the many broken panes of glass that had fallen victim to the sacking of the Greyjoys and their men during the war.

She knew that the Queen was sending supplies North and that they were on their way, she could only hope that glass was among them, or at least a man proficient in the art of making glass. 

Having the Glass Gardens fully functioning again would be useful over the coming moons, especially if it meant that Winterfell could rely on the crop that it would produce to feed the castle, allowing the farmers to keep the crop that their own fields yielded. 

She had taken to spending time in here over the past few days, picking away at various weeds, trying to get the beds back to something that may be able to hold crops without them withering away. 

With the men in the yard, this particular part of Winterfell had been somewhat neglected. She considered asking some of the ladies to help her, wondered what scandalised looks she would get in return. 

As she heads towards the entrance of the gardens, it takes her a moment to realise that there are voices coming from within. She slows her footsteps, wincing at the sound of glass crunching beneath her boots, as she pauses on the threshold of the entrance, caught off guard by the sight before her. 

Sansa and Jon are standing close together, hands clasped between them as they kiss gently. 

She had suspected as much, that the two of them were somehow involved, but to see it unfold before her eyes was another thing entirely.

She lets out a soft gasp as the two break apart, Sansa looking over Jon’s shoulder at her with wide eyes, face pale.

Jon’s gaze is calm as his eyes meet hers. 

“Forgive me for disturbing you.” She finally manages to get out, hand over her mouth as she takes a step backwards. “I will come back another time.”

“Myrcella!” Sansa calls as she turns, cloak sweeping around her as she lengthens her strides, wanting nothing more than to find some place where she could be by herself.

She just wanted to be alone. 

* * *

“I’m sorry that you had to see that.” Jon’s voice interrupts her calm contemplation of the still water before her, arms wrapped around her knees as she perches on the same rock that she always does when she comes to the Godswood.

“I’m sorry for the way that I reacted. I was caught off guard.” She replies softly.   

She meets his gaze mildly as he takes the knee in front of her, his eyes dark, serious.

“I know that you owe me no favours. But I was hoping that you would allow Sansa and I the privilege of speaking to Robb of our union ourselves.”

“So there is something there?” She asks softly as Jon rests his forearm on his knee, still gazing at her seriously, intently.

“Yes there is. Has been for some time now.” Jon replies, as if he’d made some internal decision to trust her with the knowledge of the match between himself and his cousin.

“Of course.” She finally replies, watches as Jon’s face practically crumples with relief. “It happened during the war I suppose?” She asks, and she’s not judging, because the amount of high born families that married off their cousins to each other was higher than the small folk thought and believed.

In fact, these days it was a rather common practice. It wasn’t frowned upon, like a brother and a sister lying together might have been. Being the product of incest herself, she’s the last person able to point fingers at Jon and Sansa.

Jon moves to sit next to her, tucking his cloak behind him neatly in one smooth motion.

“Daenerys realised that we needed soldiers in order to win the campaign in the South, and sent me to treat with the Lord of the Vale. I had heard whispers that Sansa had been there for some time, and was scarcely less eager to see her again. It became very clear to me who the real power in the Vale was.”

“Sansa.” She replied as Jon confirms her guess with a curt nod.

“Yes. She’d changed so much from the girl that I grew up with. Didn’t even seem to mind that I bore a different family name to the one that I’d previously had. The way she influenced her cousin to lend his support to the cause was unlike anything that I’d ever seen. But he agreed to lend me 10,000 men to support my cause, as long as the Vale was left alone after Daenerys took the throne. My aunt agreed to those terms, and just like that I had an army.”

“How long were you at the Vale for?”

“Just a moon. It was a nice respite, to not have to worry about fighting and surprise attacks from enemies you didn’t know even existed. It gave Sansa and I a chance to reacquaint ourselves with one another now that our relationship had changed. I courted her… it was nice.” Jon admits with a gentle smile, and she sees a glimpse of the boy that he used to be.

“It would have been nice for her as well. She’s had some tough times. I admire her, she’s so strong.” She admits to Jon. “I still feel guilty for the way she was treated by my family.”

“Stop.” Jon rests a gentle hand on her arm. “You are not responsible for the sins of your family anymore than I am responsible for mine. Sansa does not blame you for her treatment. She has confided as much to me. In fact, she has a great deal of respect for you and how you have handled the changed circumstances.”

“It’s certainly not how I imagined my life to be like.” She replies with a sigh, leaning forward to pick a frozen stalk of grass from the ground at her feet.

“I think you and I could write entire volumes on that particular subject.” Jon pronounces delicately, and she can’t help but laugh at that, because who ever thought the bastard boy from the North would turn out to be the heir to the Iron Throne?

“And yet you and my cousin seem to be growing closer.” Jon points out in amusement, hand reaching up to gently touch the bloom she’d kept behind her ear from this morning. It’s a gentle gesture, and she understands why Sansa has fallen for him.

“He’s a good man.” Is all she says in reply, not willing to reveal any further feelings she may or may not hold towards The King in the North.

“A good man that will murder me if I let you freeze to death out here.” Jon declares, getting to his feet and pulling her up with him.

It’s only when she looks around her that she realises that snow has begun to fall in a light dusting on the ground.

* * *

In honour of Jon and Tommen arriving from the South, Robb had ordered a modest feast from the kitchen, with musicians and dancing to be had.

The wine had flowed freely, and seated at Robb’s left she had been in conversation with him throughout the night more often than not, Robb quizzing her on the various Southern families and alliances, and she doing her best to answer around sips of wine.

“Do you remember how to dance Lady Myrcella?” Jon leans close to her as she takes a sip of her wine, and it’s with surprise that she glances sideways at him. In the seat beside her, Robb is sprawled out on his throne, an amused smile playing across his lips as he watches Jon.

“Of course. Do you take me for a simpleton?” She asks in mock horror, draining her goblet as Jon stands, holding out a hand for her.

His teeth are a blinding white as he grins, his beard a dark contrast.

“Just checking. Come.” He commands, and although it rankles her a little, she simply lets out a long suffering sigh and glances towards Robb, who just nods his assent, doing nothing to hide his amusement.

They take their place in a line of couples, Jon sweeping her a bow fit for a princess. She ducks him the shallowest of curtsies, sharing a laugh with him as they come together and separate again.

The happiness written across her face is plain for anyone to see, and she senses the weight of Robb’s gaze as she twirls under Jon’s hand, a smile stretching from ear to ear.

As the tempo of the musicians quicken she can’t help but laugh to herself, missing this feeling of joy and euphoria that she’d gone without for so long, first in Kings Landing, then in Dorne, then in her long progress North to meet her betrothed.

The swirl of her skirts heavy around her legs is familiar and unfamiliar at once, and she relishes the feeling of sharing a moment with a man that she respects and has great affection for.

Sansa watches them, a somewhat wistful expression on her face as Robb bends his head towards his sister, murmuring something to her that forces a smile to her face.

“You should ask Sansa to dance.” She tells Jon in a low voice as they come together and clasp hans.

Jon glances briefly over her shoulder to where Sansa is sitting, looking beautiful and sad in a gown of jet black.

“I will.” He promises, even as he sketches her another bow before stepping aside for Robb to fill his place.

The surprise must show on her face as Robb takes her hand, pressing his lips to it gently with a soft chuckle. 

“We’re not complete barbarians here in the North Myrcella.” He leans in towards her, voice low, blue eyes piercing. “I do know how to dance.”

They dance. Robb keeps to tempo surprisingly well, easily taking the lead as the tune progresses to something a little slower, a little heavier. 

She steps into the circle of his arms without hesitation, his hand scorching her back through the heavy fabric of her dress.

“You’re good at this.” Robb compliments her with a sudden smile. “I suppose you learnt all the courtly dances when you were younger.”

“Some of them. I picked up others in Dorne.” Robb twirls her, pulling her close in to his body, their chests practically touching.

"You’ll have to tell me more about your time in Dorne sometime.” Robb remarks carefully, watching to see how she’d react to that.

She gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I will one day. I promise.” She vows, even as he nods to himself.

She loses herself in the music once more, watches Robb watch her. It’s a heady feeling, to be regarded as such by a King, and she doesn’t stop Robb as he grips her hand and pulls her under and around the  other dancers, and out of the Hall entirely.

The entrance hall is shockingly quiet in comparison to the hustle and bustle beyond the double doors, and Robb pulls her down onto a stone bench within a dark alcove. 

His hands are warm in hers as he leans forward, tucking some stray hair back into the intricate up do that her maid had done for her earlier.

“Where did you come from?” Robb asks, more to himself than her. She can’t resist leaning forward, thumb swiping along his cheekbone affectionately.

“Down South, a place called Lannisport.” She replies as Robb rolls his eyes, before he’s closing the distance between them, lips meeting hers gently.

She never thought in a million years that their marriage would hold anything more than a political alliance between their two families. But she’s certainly not imagining the spark growing hot between them as her lips part between his, Robb deepening the kiss with a thumb under her chin.

She can do nothing more than hold onto the front of his jerkin as he devours her, toes curling in her slippers, heat between the apex of her thighs as his hand slips around her waist.

She wasn’t completely naive, she knew that Robb’s experience with these kind of things far outclassed hers. He had been on campaign for some time, would have experienced some of the camp followers that seemed to service every army that they came across.

All the same, she can’t help but sigh against his neck in pleasure as he finally draws back from her, gaze dark and heavy, breath coming in sharp gasps.

The growling of a dire wolf jolts her out of her content haze, and Robb stands in the next instant, drawing his sword and putting his body in front of her.

It takes her a moment to realise that the Direwolf snarling at her and Robb isn’t Grey Wind. He would never act like that towards his master. It’s not Ghost, with fur a pure, snowy white. It’s not even Shaggydog, as wild as his young master. 

Robb cocks his head to the side, sword clutched tightly in his hand, still on the defensive as the wolf stalks towards him. 

“Nymeria, heel!” A voice echoes sharply from the darkness as a young girl steps into the moonlight spilling from the courtyard beyond the castle doors.

She’s tall and lean and beautiful, with dark features and cold brown eyes. At once, she turns her gaze from her brother, those eyes piercing her through, narrowed in anger.

“What in seven hells is a Lannister doing here, Robb?”

Arya Stark had returned to Winterfell.


	8. Chapter 8

The wind that blows atop the battlements is icy cold. It hurts to breathe in, but she does so anyway, relishing the dull ache that it brings, reminding her that she’s here, that she’s not invisible, that she’s alive. 

She hadn’t expected Arya to make it back to Winterfell, hadn’t even expected her to be _alive._ She and Arya had never got along, back in Kings Landing. While they hadn’t out and out hated each other, she’d done nothing when her Septa had singled out the younger Stark girl, commenting disdainfully on everything from her needlework to her manner and way of speaking. 

She’d still remembered the look of hurt on Arya’s face, even as she’d tossed her needlework aside and had strode defiantly from the room, ignoring the frustrated yelling of the Septa as the heavy wooden door had slammed shut behind her. 

She should be overjoyed for Robb, that another family member had inexplicably been returned to him, despite the horrors of the war that had overtaken most of Westeros.

But another part of her was dreading coming face to face with Arya once more. She hadn’t imagined the disdain in her voice, the anger in her eyes as the younger girl had pinned her in place with the force of her glare. 

There was something deadly about Arya Stark, something confident in the way she carried herself now that terrified her. 

Footsteps crunching in the snow have her starting slightly, but she can’t help but smile to herself when she feels the warm presence of Tommen press gently into her side. 

“What are you doing up here? It’s absolutely freezing.” Tommen shivers into his own cloak, no doubt one that Jon had given him before they’d come North. 

She doesn’t answer him, just casts her gaze North, over the rolling plains, the rivers and the forests beyond. She likes to think that far off, in the distance that she can see the Wall, the protective barrier that stands strong against unknown foes and creatures from the scary stories that her father used to tell her.

  
“It’s good, that Arya has returned.” Tommen voices, his breath misting in front of him with every exhale. “Jon especially seems very happy to see her. I think they were quite close when they were children.” 

“It wouldn’t surprise me.” She replies mildly. “No doubt they both felt out of place, weighed down with the expectation of their family. Especially since Jon grew up believing that he was a bastard until recently.”

Tommen tilts his head thoughtfully, and as she glances at him, she can’t help but be struck by just how much he’d changed since she’d last saw him, beaten and bruised and broken. She’s not sure if it was being in the presence of Robb and the other Northmen, or if it was a result of his fostering with Jon at Storm’s End, but Tommen stood a little taller, seemed more confident in himself and his place in the world. 

Another strong gust of wind has her pulling her heavy cloak a little tighter around her as Tommen huddles closer. She feels for the poor watchmen who pulled this shift, the ground below a hard frost, the air around them full of ice. 

“Do you ever think about what mother and father did in our name?”

She’s slightly stunned at the turn that their conversation has taken. By father, she had no doubt that Tommen was referring to Jaime rather than Robert Baratheon, the absent and often distant man that had raised them in the Red Keep. 

She didn’t remember much of Robert as time went by, only remnants, snatches of memories here and there. A turn of a phrase, the sour smell of wine, the clashing of steel. The belly laugh that he used to do when something pleased him, when she had made him smile.

It had always brought a shy smile to her face, when she had said something witty that had coaxed that laugh out of him.

She had loved him as a girl did her father, had thought only the best of him when she was growing up in Kings Landing. Despite all of his faults, Robert Baratheon had been kind to her and Tommen, even if he had not been a very good father. 

And Gendry. Gendry reminded her greatly of Robert Baratheon, even if he would not outright admit his parentage to her. Deep down, she knew that they shared blood, no matter how diluted it might be now, no matter how much he wanted to deny it. She would allow him that.

“Every day.” She says with a soft sigh, nodding at one of the gate guards who pulled himself to attention as they approached and then passed him. “The more I learn about what happened during the war…” She trails off helplessly, not sure if she wants to admit the dark thoughts that she’d had about her mother, about her family. 

“The more ashamed you are.” Tommen supplies, gloved hand covering hers briefly. “Ours is a dark history, one of bloodshed and deceit.” 

“Yes.” She repeats with a bitter smile. “I fear that we will never escape the taint of our family, even if Uncle Tyrion has.” She adds with a frown. 

“He came to see me you know.” Tommen interjects suddenly, his free hand reaching out to brush against the ancient stone of the walls. “After Kings Landing. Wanted to apologise, explain why he did what he did.”

“You let him?” She asks, already knowing the answer to her question. Tommen had always been the sweeter of the two of them, far more willing to forgive and forget, less likely to hold grudges.

“He told me that he’d like to make me his heir. Said that he had the power to do it, even if the Queen wouldn’t like it. I suppose he thought given how faithfully he had served her, he could get away with doing something like that.”

She is silent for a long moment, processing his words before answering. 

“And you said yes.” 

Tommen gives her a bemused smile, and she can’t help but be struck by how much he looks like Jaime. The two of them could have been twins, had Tommen been born some years earlier

“I told him I would think about it. I do have some semblance of pride left, Myrcella.”

  
The conversation turns to other topics, speculation about when the long awaited wedding between her and Robb would take place, what Arya would be like now that she’s home, how things would change. 

It was nice, to just chit chat idly, nowhere to be, no one to wait on them. These were the moments that she loved the most with her little brother, when they sparred with words instead of weapons, free from the influence of the insidious Joffrey, lying dead and buried god only knows where.

They meet Jon Targaryen in the main courtyard, the older man pulling on a pair of heavy leather gloves, eyes scanning the horizon beyond the gates, a serious expression on his face. 

His profile is still in the cool morning, and the longer she looks, the more that she can see what Sansa finds so attractive about Jon Targaryen. 

Prince of the Six Kingdoms aside, he isn’t conventionally handsome, but there’s a thoughtfulness there that adds to his profile, injects a warmth and knowing into his eyes that immediately puts anyone at ease, herself included. 

It’s easy to be around Jon Targaryen, and she had no doubt that these qualities alone would make him an incredibly adept diplomat should he ever put his mind to the task. 

“Going somewhere?” She asks in a somewhat teasing tone as Jon frowns before turning towards them, expression lightening as a small smile graces his lips.

“North, to The Wall.” He replies with a nod. “There are a few things that I must attend to.” He adds, eyes landing on Tommen. “Will you be okay here until I return?” He asks of her younger brother directly. 

“Of course.” Tommen replies mildly. “Will you be gone long?”

“I’ll be back before the wedding.” Jon reassures them both. “Can I have a moment with your sister?”

Tommen just nods before moving off towards the entrance of the Keep to wait for her, leaving the two of them alone in the yard as he goes.

Jon turns towards her once he is certain that they will not be overheard. 

“Sansa and I told Robb about our relationship last night, after Arya had retired and things had settled a little. He’s still not quite agreeable. It will take time for him to come to terms with it.” Jon says in a low voice, hand on her arm as they make their way towards the gates. 

“Okay.” She replies, because she’s not sure what else to say under the circumstances.

“Can you keep an eye on Sansa?” Jon’s voice dips low as he steps towards her. “She’s always worried far too much about what other people thought of her.”

“Of course.” She finds herself saying, before she can think twice about it. She’s not too sure that Sansa would take too kindly to her hanging around and checking up on her, but if it gives Jon some peace of mind when he’s North, of course she’ll agree. 

“Thank you.” Jon pauses just out of earshot of the two guards, stepping close to her once more. “There are things that we must discuss upon my return. I fear the worst is yet to come.”

And with his words echoing ominously in her ears, Jon squeezes her gently on her arm, turning to stride through the gates in a swirl of black. 

His dragon blocks out what is left of the sun.

* * *

 

She repeats Jon Targaryen’s words to no one, not even Tommen as the day progresses. She wiles away the hours outside in the cold, helping where she can, avoiding the training ring where she knows Arya is practicing.

Of course, fate has a strange way of completely upending all her wishes and desires, and it’s only when she’s gone to pay a visit to Gendry at the forge does she finally come face to face with Arya Stark, who’s storming away from the intense heat, a murderous expression on her face.

She steps to the side to let the other girl past, surprised instead when Arya spins on her heel to face her.

“I’m surprised to see you here my lady.” Arya begins in a low, mocking voice.

She casts her gaze to the heavens momentarily, drawing on all of her inner strength for what’s sure to be a heated confrontation, if the hatred that Arya had regarded her with the previous evening was anything to go by. 

“I am as surprised as you are.” She finally replies, tone calm as her fist closes around the dagger at her hip, hidden beneath her cloak. 

The Sand Snakes had taught her to use it, long ago. She has a suspicion that Arya would hopelessly outclass her if she tried. 

“Yes, a convenient exile. And you’ll become Queen in the North as well. Of course, I expect nothing less from a power hungry Lannister.” Arya is goading her now, trying to insult her in every means that she can.

“I’m sorry, for all that you have suffered during the wars.” She instead replies with. 

Her words have the desired effect, Arya openly gaping at her. 

“I don’t need your pity.” Arya shoots back after she’s recovered herself. 

There’s a long pause, where she wonders if Arya is actually going to run her through with the sword that she always carries on her hip, even within the safety of Winterfell.

She hears footsteps behind her, feels rather than sees Gendry plant himself next to her like a tree, arms crossed over his broad chest. 

“Leave her be Arya. Whatever grudge you have, it’s time to bury it.”

The expression on Arya’s face surprises her. Instead of disdain, or anger, the younger girl looks genuinely _hurt_ by Gendry’s comment, and the fact that he’s not backing her. 

She knows that there’s some history between the two of them, and she wondered what they’d been talking about before she’d arrived. 

Arya throws her one more glare before turning on her heel and stalking off towards the Keep. 

Gendry just sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. 

“You have impeccably bad timing.” He throws over his shoulder, gesturing for her to follow him towards the forge.

He sets her usual stool in front of her, motioning for her to sit as he draws up a stool opposite her. He looks tired, despite the fact that surely he’d have a lesser work load with less fighting in the North. 

“Sorry.” She offers a belated apology, after a long moment of silence. “I wouldn’t have come if I knew that the two of you were catching up.”

“It’s fine. I think we were done talking, if her reaction was anything to go by.”

They fall into that easy conversation that she’d come to associate him with, both of them skirting around the obvious topic of their shared parentage. 

She’s come to enjoy these chats with Gendry. He’s so far removed from the politics and back room manoeuvring of the power players of Westeros, it’s almost refreshing to be able to talk to someone that has no agenda. 

The yard begins to fill, men going about their daily work tasks as the monumental task of continuing the rebuild of Winterfell continues. 

Footsteps draw her attention, and her gaze is drawn to the guard picking his way across the yard towards them, dancing around frozen patches of ice that had frozen solid on the ground overnight. 

He bows when he reaches her, a short, jerky moment that looks unnatural. 

“My lady, Lord Stark has requested your presence for breakfast in his solar. If you’d like to come with me?”

She sighs, getting to her feet, brushing down the front of her skirts.

“That’s my summons. I hope you manage to patch things up with Arya. Even you deserve a bit of happiness, after everything that you’ve been through.” 

He just grunts, picking up both stools and returning them to the side of the forge. The guard clears his throat, and she falls into step behind him, letting him lead the way into the Keep. 

She finds her own way after they’re in the foyer, winding her way up the staircase and into the rabbit warren that made up Winterfell’s Keep. She assumed that there was some method to the madness when the castle was originally designed, but as the castle expanded it seemed like corridors were just randomly added. 

She arrives outside of Robb’s door sooner rather than later, tapping on it gently before pushing it inwards, poking her head around the opening.

Robb’s smile is like the sun when he sees her, getting to his feet and holding out his hand for her, drawing her further into the room. 

“I’m sorry for the abrupt summons. I thought we could have breakfast together. I know we haven’t had much of a chance to spend time with each other since Arya came back.”

She seats herself, Robb coming to sit opposite her. 

“It’s fine. I know you must be happy to have your family back with you. I would never ask you to prioritise me over them.”

Robb sighs, shoulders dropping as he rubs a hand over his face wearily. 

“What a mess though. My littlest brother barely speaks to anyone, it’s like he’s mute. Arya is just angry all the time. At me, at her sister, at the world in general. And then there’s Sansa and Jon…”

“They told you.” She confirms, dropping the cloth into her lap to stop the food from splashing onto her gown. 

Robb looks at her in disbelief, surprised that she even knew their secret. 

“It wasn’t my secret to tell. I would never betray the confidence of your sister or your cousin. I take it you’re not pleased?”

Robb presses his lips together in a thin line, reaching for his goblet. 

“I’m not thrilled, considering we grew up thinking ourselves brothers. But Sansa could do a lot worse than the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, even if he is her cousin.” He remarks dryly as they begin eating. 

“She’s been through so much.” She reminds him. “If Jon is willing to love and care for her, you should be glad that she’s made such a good match.

Robb is silent for a long moment as he considers her words. 

“You fought wars on the battlefields.” She continues, taking a sip from her own goblet. “You fought for your lives, just as Sansa and I did in the halls of the most powerful strongholds and castles in the Seven Kingdoms. We fought for our bodies, for our families. It wasn’t a physical fight, but a fight of words. Sansa was one of the best at it, but even she didn’t escape completely unscathed.”

“And you? Robb questions gently, eyes lingering on her scar before she’s meeting his gaze evenly. “Did you escape unscathed?”

“No, I didn’t. As you can see.” She runs fingers over puckered skin, white, milky ridges that never did quite heal properly. “I was a pawn, just as your sister was. Don’t be so hard on her, not now that she’s found some small measure of happiness.”

“You care about her. About Sansa.”

She smiles to herself. 

“In my own way. I know she is wary of me still, and I can scarcely blame her. My family did yours a great deal of harm, during the wars. If I could turn back time, stop it from happening, I would, a thousand times over. But I can’t.” 

“None of us can. We just have to grow and rebuild.”

Both of them pick at their food, and she doesn’t want to address the awkwardness in the room, the avoidance of a certain topic, but she has to broach it.

“Have you decided? On a date for our wedding? I know the Dragon Queen can’t be pleased that we’ve not yet wed.”

“Yes, the last letter that I received was less than pleasant.” Robb replies dryly. “Accused me of not holding up my end of the agreement. There was a slight threat of invasion buried within the lines somewhere.”

She breathes in, a sharp intake of air as Robb’s words sink in. She remembers the fire and the blood, the taste of ash in the air when the Dragon Queen finally came to take back the Seven Kingdoms. 

“Are you okay? You look a little pale. You needn’t worry, I wrote back to her reminding her that the reason she’s sitting on the Iron Throne is because my men stopped her armies from starving. And I wrote back with a date.”

She’s silent for a long moment, instead choosing to reach for her goblet of water. 

She jumps, when Robb takes her hand, bringing it to his lips. 

“Has Arya been giving you any trouble?”

She tries to hide her flinch, both at the accuracy of his question and his perceptiveness, even when it came to his family.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” She assures Robb, as he drops her hand, a shadow passing across his face as he sighs. 

“Myrcella, what has she said?” He questions gently. 

“It’s nothing. Really.” She insists, glancing down at her meal. “I knew it was going to be hard, coming North, being with your family after all the injustices that had occurred to them. Of course they weren’t exactly going to warm to me.”

“You will be their sister and their Queen. They won’t have a choice.” Robb remarks lightly, as he sips from his own goblet.

“I’m sorry.” She sighs, dropping her face into her hand. “This isn’t a situation that I ever thought I’d find myself in. I’m sorry for dragging you into it. I would’ve been happy enough living in Winterfell as an exile.”

Robb is staring at her now, clearly confused by the abrupt turn that the conversation had taken. 

“Do you not want to marry me?”

“It’s not that.” She replies, finally meeting his eyes, trying not to get lost in how blue they were. His handsome features are furrowed, frown stretching across his face. 

She pauses, taking another breath. 

“I just feel guilty, for having coerced you into this match.”

“Myrcella. You did not coerce me into anything. I could have refused, had I really wanted to. I want you to feel at home here, with me, and with my family.”

She can’t help the flush from creeping across her features, cheeks blooming with heat. She wanted nothing more to slink down into her seat, hide herself from view so that she could process the knowledge that Robb Stark seemingly had a hero complex, and that alone was the reason why he had agreed to this match. 

“Excuse me.” She says suddenly, pushing back her chair. “I’m feeling rather unwell.”

Robb frowns, getting to his feet quickly as he sketches her a low bow. 

“Of course, forgive me for taking up so much of your time.”

She doesn’t look back as she leaves the Solar, traitorous tears welling up in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Myrcella, she's feeling rather conflicted about what her place is up North, whether her bethrothed even likes her, or if he's doing it because he feels sorry for her.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know how I first stumbled across this pairing, but it's been love ever since. My first foray into the world of George R. R. Martin, and my first Robb/Myrcella fic!


End file.
